


My Safest Sound

by ElenAndTara



Series: By Dawn [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Authors Support Trans Rights, Blood and Violence, Dementors, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Hogwarts Fifth Year, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kidnapping, M/M, Mild Implied/Referenced Non-Con elements, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, No character bashing, Non-Canon Relationship, On the Run, Other, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Torture, maladaptive daydreaming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:40:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 28
Words: 161,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23357914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElenAndTara/pseuds/ElenAndTara
Summary: Draco learns a valuable lesson as his mother is murdered right before his eyes, the same lesson that Harry learns as the only outside witness. The war is already upon them. And it's wrecking everything in its way, with no exceptions.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Harry Potter & Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin (implied)
Series: By Dawn [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1836202
Comments: 201
Kudos: 468





	1. This Is How The World Ends

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter warnings for; violence, torture (Not explicit), character death. Explicit language, and disturbing themes. Proceed with caution. 
> 
> This story is also (M/M) slash between the main two characters, which is the entirety of this story, if you happen to have any issues with this in 2020, please be cautioned now. Now without further ado, we welcome you on this journey of angst and pain.
> 
> Updates are every alternate Saturday. Next update Saturday, 11th April.
> 
> Enjoy xx
> 
> Elen and Tara

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Despite whatever the canon creators inclinations might be, the fic authors support trans rights.

_ "This is the way the world ends, not with a bang, but a whimper." _

_ -T.S. ELIOT _

_... _

As a child, one of the seldom things that Draco remembered indulging in without his parent's consent, was their marble floors. The dark stones contrasted their vast spacy halls and rooms quite nicely, complemented his mother's furniture, made the Manor cozier, somehow, despite their color, and coldness. Always impeccably clean.

Draco relished in them more than he ever did the moving portraits, valuable heirlooms, or his father's books. He wanted nothing more, as a child, than to take off his shoes and start skidding on the shiny, cooled floor in his socks.

He remembered sitting on the floor to play, just that once, the day he had gotten his new Quidditch action figures, because he wanted to see them walk, and the cool stones felt good against his skin. And so did the small clicking noises the figures made as they waddled in circles. There was no house-elf babysitting him at the time, he was six, perhaps seven, he felt proud of being  _ old  _ enough to be left alone.

His mother had seen though, she walked in on him eventually, sitting cross-legged on the ground, his clothes rumpled and his hair a mess as he gleefully leaned on his elbows to watch his toys play. She hadn't been pleased.

"You are a Malfoy, Draco," she had said curtly, her eyes narrowed in a way Draco had seen many times before. "Malfoys don't belong sprawled on the marble floor."

She had pulled him off the ground and taken him to the study, where she sat and intently watched him play, this time sullenly on the desk.

The memory passes him in an instant, a ghost of a vignette, and he blinks at the floor as if he's trying to blink away the blood. He can still smell it, the metallic tinge which had drenched the air, so strong he could taste it on his tongue. Salty, and metallic and filled with silent pain.

' _ Malfoys don't belong sprawled on the marble floor _ ,' and yet she ended up there anyway, in the cruelest twist of fate. She ended up sprawled on her own marble floors, drenched in blood and writhing in pain. Draco could still see it, as if the image had been burned to the back of his eyelids. He could see the rivulets of red against his own bedroom floor, even though it didn't happen here at all. It happened in their main hall, just before their ballroom where Mother had thrown him a birthday party for his eleventh birthday, only a few short years ago.

His hands twitch by his sides and his chest heaves, slowly; he should stop thinking about this, he really should, but he cannot. The images cling to him, wrapped around his mind in their dark embrace, a stifling cloak.

His mother, lying on the floor, her hair drenched, no longer coiled in a graceful bun, and her face contorted in immense pain, the scene flashes before his eyes and then gets replaced by his mother again, young and firm, softly dragging him off the same floor, her jaw set and her head held up with pride.

He had watched, he hadn't done anything to stop it, he couldn't stop it even if he tried, Aunt Bella was known for her mean restraining charms, but he should have done something.  _ Anything _ . It was his  _ mother _ , being  _ murdered _ , brutally torn apart before his eyes, and he should have done something.

He doesn't feel the sting of the slap, his head snaps to the left, and stays there, there's a sudden numbness upon his right cheek, a quiet kind of ringing in his ears, and his eyes shoot upwards, detaching themselves from the floor.

"Are you listening, Draco?" Aunt Bella's face is inches from his own, and he recoils back, but he can't go much further. Her hand is gripping his chin, nails digging in painfully. He doesn't answer. He wishes he could snap that bony wrist, the one which had flicked with such elegance as his mother twitched, her limbs flailing.

A sound escapes his throat. Small, and pathetic. His mother would have wrinkled her nose, and told him that Malfoys don't whimper; Draco has the urge to sneer at himself. Bellatrix's eyes narrow, almost as if she sees the thought in his head "Stop being a whimpering whelp, Draco," she snaps, reminding him now more than ever, that she used to be his mother's sister.  _ Used to be. _

"Are you listening?"

He meets her eyes.

"She was a traitor, don't you see?" Her hands tighten, and Draco vaguely wonders if he will have bruises later. She goes on, "She tried to betray the Dark Lord. Now, who would be foolish enough to try something like that?"

Draco tries to jerk away from her, but for such a frail-looking woman, for someone who has spent so many years in Azkaban, she is deceptively strong. Her fingers are cold, they remind him of the dementors that had swarmed Hogwarts in his third year. Not so funny now, he thinks. To make fun of Potter then; even though it's not a dementor he's facing, he almost wishes it were.

She leans in closer, and he can smell her reeking breath. The scent of rot and death clings to her like perfume, stifling, burning through his nostrils.

"She thought she could help take him down," she laughs, a high pitched, sharp sound. It hurts Draco's ears. "The Dark Lord, Draco," her eyes are intense, and their faces are almost touching now. He leans back, she continues, "The Dark Lord!" she barks out another short laugh, out of pure indignation and disbelief.

Draco wonders if she could feel him trembling beneath her hand. If she could see the undiluted hatred and raw terror in his eyes. She must have, he could feel it in every fiber of his being, how could she not see it?

She repeats, "Who could be foolish enough to do that?" finally leaning back, the grip on his chin never loosening.

Draco inhales sharply, and in a burst of courage, perhaps just as  _ foolish _ as his mother, he yells, "SHE WAS YOUR SISTER!" His ears ring with the sheer loudness of his own voice, so loud it almost... _ almost _ drowns out his fear for a second. He's surprised by it, by that raw, raging emotion churning in his belly. He's never felt it before, he wants more of it, more of this little voice that whispers hatred and promises of revenge in his ears. Malfoys don't let their emotions get the better of themselves, but he is past caring.

His  _ mother _ . HIS mother was  _ dead _ .

The same hand holding his chin in place is the same hand responsible for his mother's death. It sickens him.

Bella regards him with the same cold eyes that regarded his mother a mere hour ago, as Bella stood over her, madness glinting in her eyes as she spewed curses and goaded them on with glee.

' _ You should be honored _ !' she'd said to Lucius, screeching each word with vigour. ' _ Honored that your treacherous wife is paying for her sins! Her name will not tarnish yours anymore, are you happy now, Lucius, are you _ ?!'

His father had said nothing, he wasn't even looking at her, nor at his wife, and not the Dark Lord either, who was standing a few feet away, his arms crossed and his face twisted with sick  _ amusement _ .

His mother's pain amused him, or more likely, Bella's fanatic antics did.

"She was no sister of mine," Bella hisses to him now, "A traitor! That's what she was!"

She surges forward again, seizing him against her chest, her eyes sternly glaring down at him. "I don't want to hear you say otherwise, do you hear me?" she says it with such ferocity that Draco feels the words being spat at him. Any other day, this would have outraged him, sent him off the rails, into an angry, spoiled rant, but he bears it now, doesn't reach up with his hand to wipe the spit off his face. He doesn't care. Or he is too scared. He can't tell.

"Lucius's brat better not make any more problems for our Lord, you saw him today Draco, didn't you? Do you think he would hesitate, even for a second, before cutting your pathetic being out of existence?" No, he won't. That was made very clear to him, and he won't forget it. He wouldn't be able to forget it even if he wanted to.

He's not hearing her anymore, he is hearing the words, but he's not processing the meaning, all he can see is his mother's body, finally prone but in no way content. She was dead. Draco didn't know that one could tell the difference between death and sleep so accurately, but he could have. His mother was a stiff, bleeding sack of flesh and bones and nothing more. She wasn't asleep, she was dead.

Had she been relieved? She'd screamed so loudly. Had she been relieved to finally escape, even if it was by means of death?  _ He  _ had been relieved; a small, tiny, shriveled up part of him had been relieved to finally hear her go silent. He would have gone insane if he had heard her scream any more. But mostly, he had been a lump of horror and denial.

"How could you?" His voice is a whisper this time, a stark contrast to his previous yelling. He sees Bella's eyes flash, and then- blinding agony. His mind blanks out. The pain rips through his body like lightning. Singeing each nerve ending, as if they're being severed with heated knives, it tips through the previous numb shock that had swaddled him in a safe cocoon of cold and empty ignorance.

It doesn't last long, not even long enough for him to start screaming properly, but at the same time, it lasts a lifetime. He's never felt this kind of pain before, never in his life had he thought this kind of suffering was even possible for the human body to endure. To feel and live through.

He's on the floor, not standing anymore, he sees the roof beneath narrowed slits, his body twitching occasionally as Bella finally points her wand to the floor, her face masked with indifference and mild disgust. Of course, she's disgusted, this kind of pain is nothing more than a mild sting to her.

She crouches by his face, her long nails grasping his disheveled hair with a stinging tug, she leans no further but pulls his head up to her mouth.

"You'll learn, Draco, won't you?" she's almost cooing, a sickening facade of affection and gentleness, and her fingers are twisting in his hair, and it should have hurt, but Draco cannot possibly compare the two pains, he's too far gone to care.

"You won't be like her; pathetic, useless, treacherous. You'll learn. Auntie Bella will teach you," she lets his head fall back against the ground with a distinguished thud and wipes her hands on her robes, stepping over him with a slight sneer.

With a sharp slash of her wand his door slams open, almost breaking off the hinges. Draco barely represses a flinch. She strides out, her robes billowing behind her in a whirl. He turns his head away and faces the roof again, noticing a very thin, faint crack in the corner.

He doesn't know how long he lays on the floor, staring at the crack, hypnotized by it, he has no concept of time and he cannot look out the window to form a haphazard guess, he doesn't want to, he could feed on the urge to just lay there, for eternity, not move, not talk, just exist...existing was proving to be strenuous enough by itself.

He's never been under that spell before. He'd seen others under it. He's seen it done on other people a few times. He knows what it can do, how it chases the sanity out of their minds, renders their limbs useless, the same way a dead body flails to a dancing jinx, but feeling it wasn't the same. It was not the same. His nerves, every fiber of his being coiled and screaming in agony.

It couldn't have been more than five seconds. This is what five seconds have done to him, and Draco had seen Muggles endure hours and hours of this, this summer alone. How did they endure it?

_ Because they couldn't do anything else. _

The  _ Crucio  _ was gone, but the pain remained, serving as a warning, a sharp reminder, Bella's version of a slap on the wrist. Now with his mother gone Draco suspected that he will be receiving more than a few of those. The thought rises like a black cloud of terror and panic, of helplessness.

Merlin, he couldn't even imagine undergoing the curse one more time, not again, he has had enough of this curse to last him a lifetime; a dozen lifetimes. It was too much, he would die.

He is weak and pathetic, he knows that, he was raised like that, he wouldn't survive another thrashing. No matter how much he wills himself to be strong, to fight back, even as his own mother was killed before his eyes, he couldn't do anything, because the truth of the matter is... he's a coward.

And he'll always remain one.

He doesn't know how much time passes before he hears the door opening again. His eyes have fallen shut, and his breathing has evened out a little. But his limbs are still trembling. He can't stop it. He can't stop shaking.

He feels and hears his father's footsteps clicking against his bedroom floor, hears the door cringe as Lucius gently pushes the broken thing away. He's always been able to tell when it's his father, he always hears the third click, the sharp thud of his father's cane, oddly absent now as his father kneels before him, his hair in disarray and his own hands shaking. Draco had never seen them shake before. He hadn't seen a lot of things before today.

"She was too rough with you," Father mutters, his knees brushing against Draco's arm. Draco wants to retch.

He sees something shift in Father's eyes through narrowed lids. His muscles are still too sore for him to move. Lucius runs a hasty hand through his own hair, and gingerly clasps a hand around Draco's arm, his fingers feel cold and clammy through Draco's shirt.

"Come on," he says, coaxing Draco to sit up. "I'm calling a house-elf... To take care of you."

Draco feels like resisting him. "Father-" he wants to say more. Much more.

He wants to shout, and thrash, and spit at the hand holding his arm, hoisting him to his feet, he wants to curse his father and his father's father and his whole family, for allowing this, this disgrace, this  _ invasion _ to happen in their own house, for watching and doing nothing as his Aunt murdered his mother, his father's wife, and then cast an unforgivable on him; but then he also wants to burrow his face into the man's chest and cry like a little boy as he had been allowed to do a few times in his childhood.

He feels as if he's short-circuiting, his mind shutting down in sparks and bangs. Suddenly he wishes that this was all a nasty dream. He hadn't thought of it before. But he wishes now.

'Just a dream.  _ Please _ . ' he doesn't know who he's praying to. He doesn't care. He just wants this to end.

Lucius half carries him to his bed, not saying a thing as Draco grits his teeth and rides the dulled waves of pain with closed eyes. His sheets feel like heaven against his skin, soft and cool against the pins and needles stabbing him.

"I'm…" Lucius starts, but trails off, never finishing the rest of the sentence.

"I cannot stay," he says after a while and Draco finally peels his eyes open, just barely. It feels a lot harder than it should be. "I'm needed at the…" he hesitates for a beat, "Dark Lord's side."

"Mother," Draco says, yearning to see pain, guilt,  _ something, _ flash in his father's eyes. He should be feeling something. His wife was dead. Mother was dead. He should be more than guilty, Father should be devastated. Father had loved Mother more than life itself. His mother had always said so.

' _ Your father only loves two people in this world, my dragon, you and me and nobody else. We're what matters to him,"  _ It had always made him feel special.

Lucius jumps away as if burned. Draco rejoices, if only for a second, in seeing the man flinch. He shouldn't be happy, he's devastated.

"Twinky," Father murmurs, the bed dipping momentarily as he stands once again. "Call her yourself,"

The man spares one last glance at his son and heads for the door.

"Don't…" he pauses, "Don't cause any trouble, Draco," his voice is so soft that Draco strains to hear it, he has never heard his father speak in that way. Hesitant, fidgeting.

He had never seen him grovel, and kiss another man's robes either.

So different from the confident hero he had built of the man in his head. Draco had spent his entire childhood worshiping a god that quivered at the sight of a monster.

Lucius leaves.

He is still in pain.

Draco doesn't call Twinky.


	2. The Terror of a Lone Lake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings for; torture (not explicit), child abuse(not explicit), explicit language, violence, and disturbing themes. 
> 
> We were so happy about every single response we got for this story, and are so excited to share this chapter with you today. 
> 
> Next update Saturday, 18th April.

" _Then — ah then I would awake / To the terror of the lone lake"_

_-Edgar Allan Poe - The lake (fragment) 1827_

...

 _'It's always darkest before the dawn Harry,'_ Sirius had told him that once, in one of his letters as Snuffles. As Harry's eyes open and his scar sears in pain, he finds himself loathing Sirius and his metaphoric logic.

The nightmare had been so _vivid_ that for one startling moment, Harry really isn't sure whether he is awake or not _._ Mrs. Malfoy was being killed, brutally murdered. Harry had seen it happen, every second of it, with his own eyes, which were so absurdly, so horrifically, so inexplicably and uncontrollably narrowed in _amusement_ , as Bellatrix Lestrange, deranged and unstable, cursed and tore the other woman. Harry had sensed Snape passively standing by his side, and the Malfoy patriarch on the floor, restrained and staring at his knees with a fixed expression as the younger Malfoy thrashed in his bounds and called for his mother until his throat had been rendered raw.

It had all felt so raw. So real. He can still hear the screams echoing around in his head and the flashes of curses. The blinding green light of the _Avada Kedavra_ as it had ended Mrs. Malfoy's life, as it had done so many years ago his mother. And father. And Cedric.

Harry had cackled under his breath; he couldn't fathom why he would have, the scene before him was horrific, absolutely nauseating, and he was forced to watch every minute of it. It filled his chest with a clash of conflicting emotions, threatening to drown him under a wave of fear and despair. He didn't know Narcissa Malfoy and he didn't particularly like her son either… but he wouldn't wish such a horrible death on her either.

He should have been repelled, but instead, he'd felt happiness, an eerie sneaking streak of joy that almost felt like indulgence in glee, and it felt wrong, so _wrong_ to feel happy when Mrs. Malfoy was dead. Happy at Malfoy senior's misery and Draco's struggles.

He is going to be sick.

He presses his fist tighter against his mouth, trying to repress the urge to vomit, burrowing himself further in the sweat-soaked covers, his other hand clutches his wand so tightly that his fingers cramp.

It was just a dream. Nothing more. Even though he can't, for the life of him, imagine why he'd dream of such a thing. He had never even heard of half the spells Bellatrix had used. How had his mind come up with _that?_

Or maybe his mind is just that twisted enough to think of the spells, ones so fundamentally gut-wrenching that bile starts rising up in his throat again, he prays for that not to be the case, wishes that maybe he has read them somewhere and promptly forgotten about them because of how horrible they were.

Bellatrix was there. In the dream. Harry doesn't know why he'd thought of her at all. She was in Azkaban as far as he knows, wasn't she?

_Wasn't she?_

She hadn't been there in the graveyard when Voldemort had been resurrected, Harry can at least remember that with some sense of decorum and no self-doubt. She wasn't there, he would have known, she wouldn't have let him leave alive if she were there. Not with the way she dealt with Mrs. Malfoy just now, which thankfully meant she was still in Azkaban. Although Harry wouldn't know, he hadn't read the papers in a long time.

When the screams in his head die down, he realises with a jolt that it's not his head and temples that are pulsing in pain, but his scar that's aching.

He lies there, motionless for a few moments, taking deep breaths that flood his lungs with much-needed air until it doesn't feel as if he's about to pass out anymore, he sits up, slightly dizzy, clapping a hand over his forehead.

The feeling is foreign to him, almost, the only instances of his scar hurting had been during his first year, during his entanglement with Quirrel and the Philosopher's stone, and even then the pain hadn't reached this intensity when Voldemort had touched him through Quirrel's body, that was mild, compared to that _night_ in the graveyard, when that vile scaley finger had touched his scar, nearly splitting his head in two with a kind of pain, that was to this day, still unimaginable to Harry.

That's the thing about pain, Harry knows all about it, the body forgets the pain, it can never conjure up an estimation after being put through an immense amount of it. It forgets as a coping mechanism. Harry wishes his mind was as smart as his body.

This throbbing ache makes him even more nauseous. He needs to wash his face, anything to cool his scar down a bit. He kicks the covers off with a small grunt and scrambles to his feet, his hand still tightly clasped against his scar. It feels inflamed under his palm, and a bit wet, Harry suspects that to be sweat, and prays that it's not blood.

His right hand has bright red teeth marks over it, visible in the dim moonlight slanting in through the small window. The Dursleys don't like it when he's loud.

He looks at the window, remembering how once he'd been small enough to fit through it, to get into the Weasley's enchanted car and fly away.

He wishes he could do it now. Climb out of the window and get away. Far away from whatever he is feeling right now, the disturbingly vivid nightmare, the pain in his scar which always meant something is _wrong,_ from the vice-like grip of guilt on his heart whenever he thinks of Cedric and his lifeless eyes, the Dursleys, the utter, bone-deep, crippling loneliness he has been feeling all summer. Away. Away. Away.

And to make matters worse, he is somewhat responsible for his self-exile in a way. He isn't even getting the Daily Prophet anymore.

After waiting day after day for them to include _one_ article regarding Voldemort's return, and growing exasperated as none did, in a fit of petty rage, Harry had canceled his subscription.

He's cut off now. In every sense of the word.

He looks at the floor. It's such a sharp contrast to the pristine dark marble floors that he'd seen in his dreams. Before they'd been stained in blood. He can almost see it now. Her twisted broken body, lying limp after what felt like _hours_ of writhing.

He knows what the cruciatus feels like. White, hot knives stabbing through every inch of his body, cutting up his nerve endings into confetti and spitting on them for good measure, 'There, you little asshole,' the curse says, 'Feel it _burn_ , '

Mrs. Malfoy had it cast on her so many times. He wouldn't wish it on anyone. Well, maybe Bellatrix. And Voldemort.

He tears his eyes away with the yearning still burning in his chest and stumbles to his door, groggy still and somewhat dizzy on his feet.

This isn't his first restless night, far from it, in fact, he had been so desperate for a break, that he couldn't help but pray for a different dream every single morning as he forced the sleep out of his body and mind and tried to go through with his chores. _Tried_ being the keyword. And his wish had been granted in the most gruesome way.

He'd just wanted a small break from seeing Cedric's face every night, cold and motionless, his face shocked in death, wide grey eyes and an agape mouth. Harry is sick of it. And now another face is imprinted in his mind. He wishes he could obliviate himself. The whole resurrection. The whole Triwizard tournament. A lot of other things too, if he gets any say in it.

Harry reaches the door, his cold fingers wrapping around the doorknob, twisting. Even that small task takes so much effort.

The door doesn't budge. He releases the knob with one last half-hearted tug.

Of course, it doesn't, he realises with a sinking feeling in his chest. The Dursleys have locked him in again.

The walls of his room close in, trapping him inside like a bird in a heated cage. He heaves in another thrashing breath. He'd never been claustrophobic, he couldn't afford to be claustrophobic, not when he had been forced to live in a cupboard for the better part of his life. That was the first rule of survival in his books, adapt fast, or you're dead.

Lately, it takes a while for the rule to kick in...ever since Cedric, to be precise, ever since the _graveyard._ Nothing feels right. Everything is stilted and falling, and crumbling and _wrong._ His body doesn't listen to him anymore, and his mind, that's a whole other issue in itself.

He turns around, pressing his back to the door, a small childish part of him hoping that it would give away under his scrawny body.

His eyes flicker over to the window again. He wonders where Hedwig is right now. He almost regrets sending her away this evening. He doesn't want to be alone.

Slowly at first, and then falling with a muffled thud, Harry slides to the floor.

 _'It's always darkest before the dawn,'_ Harry sure hopes that the dawn isn't too far away now. He's sick of the dark. He shudders, draws his legs up to his chest, and wraps his arms around them, resting his head upon his knees, just like he used to do when he was little in his cupboard.

His eyes are so dry they burn. He blinks. And feels nothing as the empty pit in his chest seems to grow larger.

The throbbing in his scar fades into a faint ache in the background.

##

A loud crack rings across the air and a man in dark billowing robes appears, his feet stumbling a little on the wet sand beneath him. There is a scowl on his face as he rights himself, standing up straight. He's not one to usually _stumble._

No one else is there, the area looks completely deserted, just miles and miles of sand stretching behind him, and endless sea stretching vast on the other side of him. The sun has long since dipped past the horizon. It's dark enough that one cannot quite tell the sea and the sky apart anymore.

He stands there, not moving. The expression on his face doesn't change. His lanky black hair is falling limply over his eyes; he doesn't bother brushing it away. He stares at the lazy tides with emotionless onyx eyes, washing up against the damp sand.

Abruptly, he turns around and starts walking. Within moments, a small cottage has appeared in the distance. He is still holding his wand in his hand as he makes his way over to it. It looks small, and snug from the outside, looking desolate and alone surrounded by nothing but the sea. He has a deep kinship with the place because of it.

The door slams open, thudding against the wall with a bang as he walks in. There is the soft tinkling of a wind chime, and he curses Albus and his frivolous antics, suppressing the urge to banish the object. He even raises his wand, but then stops and lets it be.

With a wave of his wand, the Death Eater garb he is wearing vanishes, leaving him in his usual clothes. It doesn't help make him feel better.

He finally stows his wand away, relaxing; if only marginally. He almost looks lost for a second, but then walks over to a cabinet in the kitchen with purpose. He pulls it open, and even though he _feels_ like his hands are shaking, he is steady as he pulls out a bottle of Firewhiskey.

On his way to the living room, he grabs a glass from the counter. And then settles down heavily on the couch. Pouring himself a full glass, he sets the bottle down on the table.

He has downed half the glass in five seconds, and it burns. He finishes the rest of it and pours himself another, but doesn't sip yet. He stares at the nearly full glass, and the liquid inside, and his hands which are gripping it. He traces the rim with a finger, his lips pursed.

The warmth from the Firewhiskey is spreading quickly through his body, but it does nothing to curb the hollow feeling beneath his ribs. And something akin to regret.

Narcissa Malfoy, Severus thinks, was one of the fiercest, most graceful women he had ever known, even coming as far as showing up Lily Potter, his former best friend. All that beauty and grace and she had been reduced to _that_ . All while he stood by and did _nothing._

He never seems to do anything, does he? No matter how hard he tries, the people he ends up caring about suffer the most horrific fates.

Just last week, he had talked to her, and she had been in all her high chinned, proud Malfoy glory then. Speaking in a voice which was so different from the hoarse screams which had been drawn out of her in the last moments of her life. Almost worse than she had been seeing Draco and Lucius. Lucius, with his dead-eyed stare as he too, did nothing. And Draco, _Draco;_ Severus clutches at the glass tighter, remembering Draco's screams, which could have rivaled his mother's.

He closes his eyes. No one had said being a spy would be easy.

##

Harry stirs when a sharp knocking raps the door right behind him, he almost jumps out of his skin, scrambling, reaching for his wand, until Aunt Petunia's shrill voice cries out, "Get up! Get up! The breakfast isn't going to cook itself, get up!"

Harry winces, shoving his wand back in his jeans. His back aches, and there's a crick in his neck. His legs are prickling with the standard pins and needles sensation. He'd fallen asleep on the floor.

Aunt Petunia continues, "I didn't keep you in this house to be a lazing, good for nothing freak! Get off your lazy ass and get to work! Get up before you regret it!"

"I'm up. I'm up. I'm coming," Harry says wearily, hoping that his aunt would just _shut up._ On the days he's feeling particularly sassy, he imagines her face without a mouth, just smooth flesh over a mouth that hurls too many hurts in this world. Harry isn't his aunt's first and only victim. Nearly anyone else other than Vernon or Dudley has gotten the brunt of Aunt Petunia's tongue at least once.

His aunt finally relents and he can hear her heels clipping down the stairs. Harry twists the knob and pulls, feeling an irrational rush of relief as the door opens. Of course, she has unlocked it for him. How else is he going to make breakfast for them?

Straightening up, he grimaces, stretching out his arms and legs. While falling asleep on the floor hadn't exactly been pleasant, at least he hadn't been plagued by any more gruesome deaths. Be it his mother's screams, or Cedric's eyes, or Mrs. Malfoy's blood. Harry would take a sore body over nightmares any day.

His wand is well hidden but within reach, in the giant pocket of his sagging jeans as he walks. It's always on him. Lately, even breathing feels hard if he is without his wand. He feels too exposed, too vulnerable, too _naked_ without it.

He knows there'd be hell to pay if any one of the Dursleys found him with the wand, but he'd rather take a thrashing than deal with Death Eaters or Voldemort wandless.

He passes his cupboard without a glance, and obediently heads right into the kitchen, dodging Dudley's tripping hazard and Uncle Vernon's morning glare as they all wait for Harry to start preparing breakfast. Aunt Petunia is already cracking the eggs, and she wrinkles her nose at him when she sees him.

"Here," she shoves the egg bowl into his hands. "Be quick, boy. Vernon likes his breakfast after reading the paper."

Harry knows this, of course, and automatically starts whisking the eggs, even as his mind is still foggy and his neck sore.

He works as if on autopilot. This is easy. He can do this. As long as he doesn't make any mistakes, or doesn't have any accidents, he'd be fine. He could just block everything out and complete his chores for that day. Maybe there would be enough chores today to exhaust him so much that he won't dream.

It's a futile thought and he knows it. The nightmares don't care whether he is exhausted or not, after all, they just ram their ugly heads in uninvited and refuse to leave, as if just to spite him. They wait until he's asleep and won't let up until he's screaming himself awake. They torment Harry with their dark, looming presence, which doesn't abate even with consciousness. They're always there, lurking on the edge of his vision, always hovering over his shoulder.

Sometimes, he wonders if they're real, and the weight on his shoulders isn't one of mental strain. He's either going mad or finally opening his eyes. It all depends on one's views, he supposes.

Sometimes, he also wonders whether the whole thing in the graveyard too had been nothing but a nightmare. Maybe Voldemort isn't back. Maybe everything is just an awfully long dream.

A little wishful thinking never hurt anyone.

Sometime last week, Harry had started a little game he'd liked to call ' _Had Everything Gone Right In My Life_ ' and so far he had gotten to the part where he's hanging out with Sirius in their own lawn, and chugging chilled Butterbeer, and just talking about life. Maybe he's telling him a story about one of the mischiefs Sirius and James had gotten up to during their time.

It's a very self- indulgent, bitterness-driven game, and sometimes he feels slightly guilty as he lets his hands take over the chores, and cautiously starts playing the game in his head.

"Oh, so you think you can beat me as a chaser?" That's something Sirius would say. Or Harry thinks so. He still cannot predict Sirius's reactions perfectly, but he's working on it.

And even if this is the last thing his godfather would think of saying, who cares? This is Harry's game, Harry's rules. In this alternate world that didn't include weeding the lawn under the scorching sun, Sirius is the cool fun godfather, and Harry loves him anyway. And Sirius loves him too, for him, and not James's phantom that takes the shape of Harry's body.

The back of his neck heats up under the sun as Harry bitterly pulls out the weeds, and spares a glance at their porch every once in a while. Before he's halfway done, he decides to use the hose in the backyard to cool down a bit before getting back in, and since Aunt Petunia isn't snooping on him from the porch today, then he might just get away with it.

"There's a smart lad!" The Sirius in his head cheers him on with a firm slap on the shoulder.

'Thanks, imaginary Sirius, ' Harry drawls in his head with a roll of his eye and then straightens his back, rolling his shoulders with a wince. When Hedwig gets back, he's writing to his Godfather for real. Chatting with the man in his head is starting to feel a little bit like cheating, and it's making Harry feel weird.

The imaginary Sirius keeps on goading him, and Harry carries on with the light-hearted - albeit deeply sad and disturbed- dialogue in his head. In the end, when he's down to two remaining weeds, Ron and Hermione are included in the game as well, Ron on his own Nimbus and Hermione tucked under a tree with a gigantic book, because why not? That'll make her happy. Happier than she is in this life, probably.

With a frown, Harry realizes that all the letters Ron and Hermione had sent to him had been cryptic as hell. Vague and not actually giving him any information. It was as if they were ignoring his letters, in which he kept asking them about the Wizarding World situation. What was Voldemort doing? What was happening? Were they all alright? Were they hiding something?

One would think with the events of last year and all the shit he went through they'd be more… attentive. Harry knows that they are, which makes the whole situation even stranger. He's worried about them. He's mad at them too. But he's mostly worried. He won't admit to himself how mad he is at them. Not until he knows the facts, anyway. So for now, he settles on being worried.

With a frown, and his mouth curled down, Harry wrenches the worn gardening gloves off his hands and dumps them in the weed-filled bucket. He feels hot and dizzy, both indicative signs of spending too much time under the sun. He should probably go and cool down before his brain fries.

Despite the chores, despite the dizziness, he feels jittery. As if waiting for something to happen. He's been feeling like this for a few days now and has mostly learned to ignore the deep unsettling restlessness. Mostly.

Even though he's not aware of the cause yet, he cannot let it overwhelm him, the first rule of survival is adapting, and Harry adapts, whether the restlessness likes it or not.

Aunt Petunia is nowhere to be seen as he quietly turns on the hose, washing his hands with the blessedly cool water, before splashing some of it on his face.

With a sigh Harry shoves the bucket in the shed and walks inside, making his way to the kitchen to make lunch. Aunt Petunia is already there, wiping the counter with a rag but intently glaring at him once he makes his way inside.

"Change out of those before you touch any food," she barks, and Harry nods, turning away before she clears her throat.

"Vernon and I are taking Dudders to Marge's tomorrow. She has hay fever, and she needs us around."

Harry doesn't know why he is privy to this sudden piece of gossip. Marge must have called when Harry was out working, the Dursleys usually never bother telling him about their plans.

"Alright," Harry wonders whether they're dumping him with their neighbor Mrs. Figg or taking him along to Marge's house. Probably force him to sleep in the kennels with the dogs. Harry winces.

"Should I…" _pack?_ He doesn't need packing, what he needs is already on him, his wand and his glasses are always with him anyway, he doesn't need that many clothes either, at this point, Harry would really rather go stark naked than appear in these rags in public.

"No. You're not coming," Aunt Petunia drops her rag with a curl of her lip. "You're staying here, boy,"

Harry cannot help it, his eyebrows rise and his jaw slackens. They've never left him alone in the house before. What if they lock him in?

The expression on his face seems to disgust Aunt Petunia more. "Don't look at me like that," she snaps.

"That's my face," Harry cannot help mutter.

"Curb your tongue, boy! As I was saying," she takes a deep breath, taking in the strong odor of bleach wafting around the kitchen. "We're leaving you to take care of the house. I already left you the list of chores, you'd better not skip any. I counted the food in the fridge too, only the ones on the low shelf are for you, and that's it. I'll know if you've fooled around,"

Harry nods, resisting an eye-roll. Figures, only Aunt Petunia would be depraved enough to actually count the items in her fridge to make sure Harry doesn't take anything more than his share.

"And you better not. Fool around, that is." She grabs her rag once again, turning away from him. "Vernon doesn't have the patience to deal with your insolence. You don't want the repeat of last summer, do you?"

She's not looking but Harry shakes his head nonetheless. He resists a slight shudder as he thinks about _last summer_ and then clears his own throat.

"Am I allowed to leave now, Aunt Petunia?"

She jerks her head once. "Then come make lunch, Dudders should be back from the library any minute now."

Right. The library.

Harry rolls his eyes and heads for the stairs, mulling his aunt's words in his head a few times. Having the weekend for himself could prove useful if she actually meant it when she said that they're not locking him in. He doubts Uncle Vernon was completely on board with the plan, but he must have given in eventually, probably because of the chores.

If Harry's lucky enough, and they really do mean it, maybe he can try picking his cupboard's lock to get some of his homework done. He hasn't done a single essay from the start of the summer, mostly because his things weren't with him, but also because… well, because he really doesn't like thinking about Hogwarts more than he has to.

Or maybe it's not Hogwarts that he's trying to avoid, but the events that took place there last year. Cedric's death is still fresh on his mind.

With another shake of his head, Harry sets his jaw and refuses to think about the subject anymore.

##

Two pieces of toast, the very last spoonfuls of their peanut butter jar, and exactly three stripes of bacon. It's more than he usually gets, but it is supposed to cover him for two days, so that's slightly disconcerting him.

The Dursleys are gone before he wakes up, and it takes Harry a moment to realize that he's home alone. By himself. With no one else. Perhaps except for Hedwig who had returned late last night, empty-handed… or clawed, once more.

"Good morning," Harry mutters to his owl, lazily reaching a finger for Hedwig to nibble on. Hedwig hoots around his finger, her feathers slightly ruffled from the windy flight. She looks famished. Harry supposes he should send her out to hunt since Uncle Vernon isn't here to pop a vein over Hedwig anymore.

Hedwig settles on his shoulder and they venture downstairs, Harry fixes his glasses, his jaw tensing with a wide, eye-watering yawn. Last night wasn't pleasant. Not Mrs. Malfoy's level of gore, but the Cedric dreams were back. He doesn't know if it was better or worse.

Harry lets Hedwig hop on the kitchen table with a chuckle. Aunt Petunia would have kittens if she saw Hedwig on her pristine tablecloth now, preening her feathers. The image satisfies him, even if the feeling is short-lived and fleeting.

"You go, girl," Harry cheers on and turns to face the fridge.

So, two pieces of toast, a couple of spoonfuls of peanut butter jar, and exactly three stripes of bacon...that's all he's getting. Hedwig flaps her wings and settles on Harry's shoulder once more, nibbling on his ear as Harry surveys the food with narrowed eyes.

"My ear isn't food, Hedwig," he distractedly runs his hand over her head and she hoots again, almost as if she's thinking of jumping into the fridge.

"This food is for me," Harry says as he picks up one of the toasts. Still, he gives Hedwig more than half of his breakfast, which was only the toast, and then sets her to go hunt in their backyard, wolfing down his breakfast in two bites. Two not very large and not very satisfying bites.

He spends the rest of the day lazily going through his chores. Not even completing half of them, but most of them had been pointless anyway. If he cleaned the damned floor once more, he'd rub the tiles right off.

He doesn't spend much time attempting to pick the padlock on his cupboard either, he figures that if he is unable to lock it back up after, or damage it, Uncle Vernon is going to blame magic and damage him in return, so he kisses any thoughts of homework goodbye and aimlessly lounges on the couch for a bit.

When the sun starts setting, and the weather cools down a little, he decides that he is feeling too cooped in. And since no one is here to stop him, he might as well go out and enjoy his limited freedom.

The slight weight of his wand in his jean pocket is comforting as he steps out of the house, locking the door behind him. The sky is a mesmerizing orange, fading to purples and blues and blacks. The sun has long since disappeared behind the vast rows of identical houses.

He walks, and just… keeps walking. With no particular destination in mind. It's quiet, and no neighbors, despite whatever Aunt Petunia might think, are peeking out their windows to stare at the 'unstable boy that the Dursleys were so gracious to take in'. Harry thinks that they're too busy living their lives to bother themselves with Aunt Petunia's words.

He occasionally encounters people, he only knows a few and studiously ignores them, but other than that no one really pays the too thin boy with overly large clothes and dark circles under his eyes any mind.

He catches Dudley's gang snooping behind the fences a little further away from the park, smoking something, probably cheap rollups they sneaked out of their parent's bedrooms as they snigger and cuss between themselves.

He steers clear away from them and heads for the park, judging by the darkening sky and rolling clouds, it should be mostly vacant by now.

Kicking away a can of soda along his way, he enters the park. There are still a couple of stragglers around, but they look like they're leaving. It isn't a big park anyway. He likes it.

He walks over to a bench. The pieces of cheap paint on metal are rusting and peeling off in some places, but he sits down anyway. He scratches some of the paint chips with his fingernails, idly glancing around the playground.

The bench isn't comfortable, but he could sleep here if he wanted to. It's in the open, and that somehow feels better. And maybe, just maybe, he won't have a nightmare for once. He laughs at his own joke. Then abruptly stops when he realizes how pathetic it is making him look. Sitting in a vacant park, laughing at something only he knows.

He sits there for a little while, gazing up at the sky as it darkens further, the light bleeds away into inky blackness. It's getting chillier too. Harry wasn't expecting that when he stepped out for his stroll, or else he would have worn one of the Weasley jumpers over Dudley's rags. They all still fit. The first one he had received is only a bit shorter now, the sleeves fall short to the middle of his forearms.

The weather keeps getting colder, and Harry decides it's time he got back to Privet Drive. He frowns as he walks. It's only July, normally by this time of the month even asphalt starts baking in the streets.

It shouldn't be this cold.

With a hesitant shrug, Harry stuffs his hands in his pockets, feeling the smooth sleek wood of his wand as it rolls under his fingers and feels his heartbeat slow down once more, even as the hair at the back of his neck prickles.

And then it's as if someone thrusts the whole area, or perhaps Harry, into a refrigerator; goosebumps rise along his arms and his breath mists in front of him. Everything is plunged into sudden darkness, the faint light of the stars above him flickers out, and he stills.

Harry turns around, and his blood runs cold.

Dementors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all can now check out our tumblr account for sneak peaks and other poetry or quotes! 
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	3. Rage Against the Dying Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings for: Explicit language. Child abuse/neglect (non-explicit), violence
> 
> Thank you all for the positive feedback, and happy reading. 
> 
> Next update Saturday, 25th April

_"Do not go gentle into that good night_

_Rage, rage against the dying of the light"_

_-Dylan Thomas_

_..._

  
  


Harry has no time to react. Bony frail fingers dart out and close around his throat, freezing and slimy, they lift him off his feet and Harry's mouth opens in shock. He's beyond shocked. 

The dementor leans in with no hesitation, its rotting leathery breath brushing against Harry's face as it leans into his mouth. It freezes his blood, numbs his mind, and Harry can't breathe, he cannot breathe under the pressure and the distinct familiarity of this feeling. His body hadn't forgotten this, it had dreaded it since the day he's last experienced it. 

He prepares himself for the impact in less than a second, clumsily in a moment. His hand goes lax, unable to grapple for his wand anymore. 

Harry wonders how a memory that he doesn't even remember having can be one of his worst.

Green lights have already started flashing in his mind. He waits for it, his mother's desperate cries, that final scream that rings out, not out of pain, but of fear. His mother's fear for him, he waits for it and it never comes, instead, there's only a myriad of green lights, and the faint echo of a statement which has been haunting him since the graveyard, curling up and burrowing into his chest and seizing him in its numbing grip. ‘ _Kill the spare’._

And horrifically enough, he could _see_ a pair of eyes burning into his. Two empty grey eyes.

He ponders on what it'll feel like. To be snuffed out of existence. Not death, but complete obliteration. Getting kissed. 

Because he cannot, not even in the furthest corners of his mind, imagine a way out of this, he cannot feel his hands, he cannot find his wand even though it's right in his pockets. Everything is too dim, under a moving veil of blackness. And it all feels numb from the cold. Even his mind. His thoughts are lethargic, hesitant. He had felt like this before. 

He vaguely feels the hand on his throat tighten, and just for a moment, hopes that the fingers would crush his windpipe, strangle him to death before it could get his soul sucked out of his mouth. He shudders to think of his body as a soulless husk with a scar on his forehead. Limp, and pale, and… shallow.

And then the hand goes slack, the pressure lifts from his throat, potentially the only thing holding him upright at all, and gravity pulls him down. He falls several feet to the ground, disoriented, feeling as if some of his soul is still out of his body, not quite _there_ yet. He cries out weakly. He blinks rapidly and notices that the darkness is lifting. He can _see._

He scrambles for his wand, trying to take it out, he doesn't have time to lose. Harry barely notices that he's not wearing his glasses anymore. He leaves cursing his shitty eyesight to some other time and gets on all four, with one hand, he desperately pats the ground, clawing at the rough asphalt as he searches for them, his glasses, while he fumbles for his wand with the other. His fingers refuse to cooperate, to close around the wand, to do anything. His mind is still trying to catch up with everything that's happening. Something crunches under his knees, and he grimaces.

Falling backward, he settles to just pulling his wand out, finally. His grip is pitifully weak on it, he isn't even holding it properly. But he has to do _something._ He opens his mouth, and then a voice hisses in his ears, "Don't use magic!" 

The voice is too close, so close that Harry feels the person's breath against the back of his neck. He jerks, no one had been around when the Dementors attacked, much less someone who can see Harry pathetically losing to a magical creature. A hand clamps around his arm in an almost bruising grip, it belongs to the same person, and it hauls him up, almost dragging on his knees. Harry quickly grasps the broken remnants of his glasses in his hand, stumbling. 

There's a tall, dark-skinned, bald man right in front of him and the dementors have receded, hovering a little further away. He can faintly make out a silvery animal through blurry eyes, something large. A Patronus. It's fading, slowly. And the man in front of him raises his wand again. 

Harry can barely make out his face, he gets no chance to do so, the man is already on the move, dragging Harry behind him in a stride that's not quite a run but too close to be called 'Firm walking'. Harry hits the man with weak hands, his breath thundering in his ears and his legs shaking noodles. 

It's not the dementor that does it for him, he realizes this with a faint sense of horror, it's this guy, whoever he is, basically kidnapping him. 

"Get off me!" He slurs, still reeling from the dementors, even though the cold isn't numbing anymore. Even though he can _feel_ again. The hand drags him harder, throwing hasty glances over his broad shoulders. Harry tries to yank his arm away again. 

"Stop that!" the man barks and Harry promptly has the urge to reply with 'Screw you!' and kick the man in the shins, but he yells "Let go!" instead.

The man yanks his arm away and shoves up his robe sleeve, showing him a smooth, markless forearm, Harry can see it's unblemished even with his impaired vision. "I'm not a damned Death Eater," the man grits out. "Now cooperate unless you want to get your soul sucked out," he doesn't wait for a response as he starts dragging Harry away again, like a disobedient child throwing a tantrum.

He stops abruptly, at a distance from the dementors. Harry can no longer see them. But the cold is still there. 

"This might be a little disconcerting," the man says in a clipped voice, before wrapping his arm around Harry in a weird parody of a hug.

And then everything _squeezes._ It's like he's being pushed through a narrow tube and he can't _breathe._ And he _knows_ he's not claustrophobic but even his adapting skills couldn't have prepared him for this sensation. 

And suddenly, he can breathe again. He's standing on solid ground again and he trips. And would have fallen face-first on the ground if not for the hand that wraps around his arm to steady him. 

"Everything here? Nothing splinched?" The man asks in a tone that implies that the answer can be nothing other than yes. 

Harry just gapes at him. "Spli-- what?" He looks around. They're back at Privet Drive. In fact, the Dursleys house is only a block away. Harry's eyes snap up to meet the man again. 

"Come on," instead of dragging him around like a ragdoll, the man puts a hand on Harry's shoulders and hurries him along towards the Dursleys house, the street lights cast long shadows of them on the sidewalk.

Harry willingly goes along, drowning out the questions in his head. This man saved him just now, questions can wait for a little while. Just a little.

He sighs in relief as Number four Privet Drive comes into his view, and the man looks almost as relieved. As soon as they're near the porch the man shoves Harry into the yard with a stern glare, his wand lighting at the end in his other hand. 

"Stay. Here," He grits out. "Don't cast any magic, do you hear me? Just stay. Don't get out of the house premises. No matter what." 

And then he's gone. There's a large resounding crack that echoes through his bones and the man disappears into thin air. And Harry's left dumbfounded on the ground, still holding his broken glasses in his sweaty palm. It takes him ten seconds to peel his body off the newly mown grass and shakily head inside the house. 

His mind is reeling and his chest still feels hollow, as if a huge chunk of it is just missing. His wand is almost crushed in a vice grip in his left hand and Harry fumbles for the house keys with a frown. 

This is most likely the most surreal experience of his life. If this is what's bound to happen when he's just taking a walk, Harry shudders to think of picnics and Quidditch competitions from now on.

As soon as he's in, Harry feels a rush of adrenaline course into his veins, and he slams the door shut, hastily locking the wall chain and leaning back against the door as if trying to physically block any intruders from barging in.

Hedwig hoots in the darkness and Harry yells. 

"Merlin," he drops his wand and slowly detaches his back from the front door. Harry closes his eyes and tries to stifle a hysterical chuckle. "Hedwig." 

She leaps for him, her beak running through his messy hair and her wings flapping in front of his face, blocking his vision. She must have sensed his distress. 

"I'm alright. It's fine, shhh," he tiptoes to the kitchen, not quite sure why he's being so paranoid as he passes his cupboard and faces the Dursleys living room. He locks the backdoor and closes all the curtains. He's scared. It takes him a while to accept that. His skin still feels clammy and cold. 

His wand is useless now, or so it seems as the man vehemently warned him against using it. Harry carefully pockets it again and sets his broken glasses on the kitchen table. In the most hysterical manner yet, he opens the fridge and just stares inside, letting the natural coolness and the bright light shock him back into reality. Vernon would have had a fit if he saw him like this.

Without even thinking he reaches for one of Dudley's soda cans. 

"This will be our secret," Harry tells Hedwig. He needs something sugary to keep him on his feet, and he knows that there's no chocolate around. Soda has to do for now. In the most likely scenario, he could say that Death Eaters took it when they attacked him. The thought brings a wry smile to his lips, even though he knows he would be far from smiling then.

Hedwig nibbles his hair, and affectionately rubs her face to his cheek. Harry sits on Uncle Vernon's chair, discontented by the ticking clock that's the only source of noise in the house. The soda stays unopened in his hands. 

He has to squint to see the time. He doesn't. 

Time passes. He doesn't know how much of it. Hedwig just preens and nibbles and flies across the room, shedding a couple of feathers on the floor. He'd have to clean that tomorrow.

And then, he hears the unmistakable sound of a lock clicking open. He jerks up, hand automatically reaching for his wand. Doesn't matter what the man said, getting expelled from Hogwarts won't matter much if he were dead. 

Hedwig seems to sense the tension in the air, because she quiets down too, settling on top of the mantle place. 

Footsteps. Harry tenses up even further. He stands up, and slowly walks over to the kitchen. They are coming from the backdoor. His feet barely make a sound on the floor. 

His knuckles have turned white from his grip on the wand. It's not dementors, at least, he knows that. There's no chill in the air to indicate that. Besides… Dementors don't have wands.

His breath catches when he sees the telltale lights of three _Lumos_ in the kitchen, illuminating the faces of three people. He doesn't lower his wand, but gasps. 

"Remus?" 

"Harry," Remus says, he has a smile on his face, but it looks strained. His face is even more rugged than the last time Harry had seen him, with bags under his eyes and a thin face. The full moon must have just passed. Or maybe it's near. Harry has never been able to tell. 

Harry's eyes scan the rest of the people. There's another 'familiar' face. He opens his mouth, but Mad-Eye Moody beats him to it. 

"Constant vigilance, Potter! I'm glad someone has it," he says in a gruff voice, nodding to the wand Harry is still holding in his hand, poised and ready to attack. 

He quickly lowers it, looking at them sheepishly. Moody still gives him an appraising nod. 

"Harry," Remus says, his shoulders stiff. "You need to go and pack now," 

Harry stares at him and finally sees the third person push past Moody with a jovial grin. "Hi there, Harry!" the short woman with pink bubblegum hair waves at him but then walks right past him to the front door with her wand pointed to the locks. 

"Harry," Remus calls him once more, this time more urgently. "You really need to pack, we have to leave now." 

"The boy is in shock, give him a second, Lupin." 

"We don't have a second Tonks, Kingsley said-" 

"I know what he said," 'Tonks' cuts in irritably. "Just give the kid two seconds to process three strangers in his living room." 

Hedwig's hoot is what brings Harry out of his momentary stupor. 

"What's going on?" He asks. 

"Harry, please trust me. I'll explain everything alright? We're wasting time here. _Please_."

"How do I know you're Remus, though?" He abruptly says, raising his wand again. The thought had come to him suddenly, and it leaves him feeling cold and scared again, even though he did his best to keep his face carefully blank. 

He hears Moody bark out a short laugh and tenses even further. Remus is staring at him tiredly, and says, "You can ask me a question, Harry. To prove that I really am Remus Lupin. Just please, _hurry_." 

Harry wracks his brain for a question. He could have asked something about the Marauders Map, something about his father, or even mom, but Wormtail knew it all.

Finally, he speaks, "What did I see when the dementors came near me?" 

Remus' lips tighten, and his eyes turn sad, but he answers, "Your mother." He doesn't elaborate. And Harry is grateful for that. It's enough. He lowers his wand again, looking around. Even Tonks has gone quiet and is looking grim. 

He never unpacked his school trunk. That should make things easier. All he needs is some clothes, and his cloak that's wrapped around his photo album. The situation seems urgent enough that Harry doesn't think they'd question the padlocks on the cupboard at all. 

"My stuff is in the cupboard," he nods at it and quickly starts heading to the stairs, he feels Tonks following after him, probably to help him pack. "I need to get some things from my room too," 

Remus barely nods and disappears from Harry's view as he quickly hurries up to his room, somewhat embarrassed that a total stranger can see the numerous locks bolted on his door. He ignores the locks and barges in his room, his eyes narrowed in concentration. 

Before his clothes, he heads for the loose floorboards. Tonks throws Harry's beat-up wardrobe open without a word and flicks her wand, quickly folding the clothes into two piles on Harry's unmade bed.

"A bit rebellious, aren't you?" She asks Harry, wiggling her eyebrows at the bars on Harry's window.

Harry loops a finger under the floorboard and pulls. "Something like that," he mutters and pulls his cloak into his arms just as Remus bustles into his room as well, Harry's trunk floating behind him. 

"Kingsley sent another message," he tells Tonks. "There's another group headed this way,"

"The wards will hold them."

"We're not taking that risk," Remus drops Harry's trunk on the bed and starts throwing Tonks's folded piles haphazardly into Harry's already messy trunk.

Harry dumps his cloak and album in the pile and grabs Hedwig's cage, his footsteps thundering against the floor as he races down for his pet. "Hedwig!" He calls and the owl comes flying at him, hooting. 

"Get in," he says, and Hedwig gives him a dirty look before obliging. Although, not before nipping one of his fingers. Harry mutters an apology, but he's not risking leaving Hedwig behind with Dementors flying around. 

Moody is staring at him, his fake eye madly rolling as he regards Harry with an unknown expression on his face. As if he can see not only through walls and doors but also through his eyes and into his mind. Harry doubts he'll see much beyond little Harry's screaming in confusion and terror in his head, flipping tables and running around, whilst alarms blared overhead.

"Was that all?" Remus is asking as he runs downstairs, disrupting Harry's thoughts. Out of the three of them, Remus seems the most frantic; Harry momentarily wonders why. He nods at Remus and holds Hedwig close to his chest.

"Good." 

Harry doesn't see his trunk floating behind the man anymore. "My trunk," 

"With Tonks. She shrunk it. The portkey is activating soon, Harry. Moody?"

Moody reaches into the pocket of his leather coat, and pulls out an empty inkwell, holding it out to Remus and the man snatches it away at once, his other hand ushering Harry to stand in the middle of the living room with Hedwig still tightly held against his chest. 

"You hold onto the inkwell, and my arm too alright?" Remus says, shoving the ink well in his hand. He seems to be growing more and more agitated by the second. Harry struggles to handle Hedwig's cage with one arm and holds Remus with the other, confused and somber as Moody and Tonks round the house up. 

"We need to leave," Moody grunts, hobbling to where Remus is holding Harry. 

"Yes we should," Lupin says, worrying his lip. He's looking at the closed curtains as if he's wishing them to part. "I can already feel it," 

"What about the Dursleys?" He doesn't know why he asks.

Remus looks at him for a second, weirdly as if he's wondering the same thing, before saying, "They'll be informed of a suitable reason for your absence. And once you're gone, the dementors won't be coming back." 

Harry nods and Tonks skips down the stairs, her head bobbing at the other men. "I'm ready. Aren't we waiting for Kingsley?" 

"No time, girl," Moody snaps. "Don't you know that those damn things hunt in herds? Kingsley is the bait. Let him do his job," 

Tonks mumbles something under her breath but extends a finger to the inkwell in Harry's hand, Moody reaches for it as well, only Remus has yet to touch the Portkey.

"Remus?" Harry asks and the man is still staring at the curtains with narrowed eyes. 

"I don't understand," he mutters and Moody snaps at him. 

"Nobody bloody cares, Lupin. Grab that damned portkey now!" 

This seems to jostle the werewolf into the present. He reaches for the inkwell and tightens his other arm around Harry's shoulders protectively. The countdown starts and Harry feels a familiar tug behind his navel, the Dursleys's living room disappearing in a swirl of colors.

##

Harry almost has an intimate moment with the asphalt before Remus tugs him back up, steadying him on his feet before looking around. 

"We should go," Remus says with a nod to Tonks and Moody and grasps Harry's shoulder, leading him away from the two. 

"Hey, aren't they joining us?" Harry asks, craning his neck to glance at them over his shoulder whilst trying to match Remus's brisk pace. Lupin doesn't stop but extends a hand to Hedwig's cage in a silent offer to take it from Harry. 

"They will patrol the area, to make sure we're in the safe zone," Remus says just as briskly as he walks, and Harry passes a fussy Hedwig over with another confused frown. Just what the hell is going on?

"Remus, what is going-" 

"Not here. I'm sorry, we're almost there." 

_Where?_ Harry itches to ask, but in the end, he doesn’t. He trusts Remus, and he doesn't want to sound like a petulant child annoying the parent by constantly asking 'are we there yet? Are we? Are we?' 

They pass the street, making a swift turn, before Remus stops before a set of matching houses, right in the middle of the street. He reaches a hand in his pocket and pulls out a piece of torn parchment. 

"Read this very carefully and memorize the content," he says as he passes the note to a disgruntled Harry. 

He grabs the note and then curses as he realizes that his glasses are still broken, stuffed in the back of his pocket. Squinting his eyes, Harry tries his best to read the writing by leaning closer to the note. Remus makes a confused noise but then sighs to himself. 

'This is the third time I'm cursing my eyes in a single day, ' Harry thinks, ' That's a new record. '

"Give me your glasses," he quickly says and Harry obliges, feeling the urgency crackle between them. They're still in danger, they must be or else Remus wouldn't behave in this way. The man is the calmest person Harry knows to this day, it's very unsettling to see him like this. 

A murmured charm later, Harry opens the note again and skims over the content;

_The Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix may be found at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, London._

"Have you memorized it?" Remus asks as Harry passes the note back to him, and he nods, pushing the questions under the surface once again. He slightly flinches as Remus sets the note on fire with his wand. 

"Look again," The comment is accompanied by a small smile and Harry turns back to the houses, his brows knitting as he sees the breaks between building 11 and 13 starting to rearrange themselves as if trying to dig their way out of the infused line that separates the two buildings. Harry watches with an awed smile, discontented on the behalf of the muggles occupying the other houses. 

Finally, a door reveals itself, and with a sharp snap, three steps extend downwards to the sidewalk, trapped by two frail rails. Remus pushes him to the door, his wand pointed to the door itself. Hedwig indignantly hoots at the werewolf. 

The door silently creaked open, revealing a narrow gloomy hallway, lit by bubbles of flickering lights attached to the walls, where the wallpapers have long peeled.

The voices are nearly deafening, and Harry stumbles back into Remus's chest and Hedwig's cage as people bustle around, shouting and causing mayhem. 

"-CHECK THERE?" A deep male voice is shouting. "How many times have I told you-"

He's cut off by a shrill woman screaming her throat raw. "BLOOD TRAITORS, FILTHY SCUMS IN MY HOUSE!" 

In the middle of the commotion, Harry hears Arthur Weasley over the shrieking woman. "No, still no word from the ministry," he says. Behind him, Remus pushes them both through the hallway, even though Harry's unconsciously digging his feet into the floorboards. "None of the dementors have been reported missing," 

Harry recognises Professor McGonagall’s voice too, who is partly hidden by the wall. "How is that even possible?" 

"Somebody shut up that damned portrait!" shouts another voice. Younger and feminine. It's Ginny, Harry thinks. 

Remus opens his mouth to call out but is drowned out again by an agitated Molly Weasley shrieking louder than the screaming portrait. "Sirius, for the love of heavens above!" she cries. "Stop pacing!" 

"FILTHY BLOOD! SUCH A DISGRACE, UTTER BETRAYAL. OF MY OWN BLOOD NO LESS!" 

"What else am I supposed to do, Molly?!" Sirius yells back at Mrs. Weasley who has a steaming pot trailing behind her, her wand suspending it in the air, out of the way. 

"I fire-called Albus," Arthur Weasley is shouting now too. "Shacklebolt sent him a Patronus, the situation is under control," 

"Under control my-"

Harry and Remus finally reach the portrait and Remus brushes past him, grasping the edges of two forlorn curtains and pulling them together by force, and the woman abruptly stops, momentarily shocking the chaotic crowd into silence. 

"Harry!" Everything seems to screech to a halting stop as he hears the shrill voice of one of his best friends, right before Hermione’s body collides with him. He lets out a muffled grunt at the force of her hug as she squeezes him, and her hair tickles his nose. 

Then the commotion starts again, and this time everyone comes barreling towards Harry with loud shouts and cries, except for Professor McGonagall, hanging in the back, but watching on with a concerned expression on her face as well.

Harry is getting more overwhelmed by the minute, even more so than when that man had rescued him from the Dementors. And _that’s_ saying something. 

Before he can even try returning Hermione's crushing hug, he's wrenched out of her arms and Sirius is in front of him, frantically looking him up and down as if he expects Harry to suddenly combust. 

"Is he alright?" Sirius asks Remus who's still standing behind Harry. "Did you give him something? He looks pale." 

"Sirius," Harry says, the man's grip on his arms is hard enough to bruise, and Harry squirms, tearing himself away from Sirius and staring around the room, while nearly everyone else stares back at him. He feels like he’s on stage and has forgotten all his lines. 

His mouth opens, closes, and opens again but before he can say a thing Ron breaks the silence. 

"What are you talking about?" He asks Sirius sharply. "Why is Harry here? Why shouldn't he be okay?” Harry turns to him with a confused frown. He wasn’t expecting Ron to be just as confused as he was, seeing that he was actually here with the adults. “Didn't Dumbledore say we're bringing him a week from now? What's going on?" 

"The dementor attack-"

Ron's eyes comically widen and he looks baffled, cutting Remus off, “What?” 

Hermione also looks just as shocked, “Harry, oh my god, are you alright? You aren’t hurt, are you?”

"The attack was on _him_?!"

Harry is gaping as he looks at her, and then Ron, who looks kind of greyish, and Sirius, who looks like he wants to grab him again.

He finally finds his voice, and it sounds weird coming out of his mouth as he speaks, “What’s happening?” And then he remembers another thing, something from the note, this place is a headquarters? “What’s the Order of the- the Phoenix? Why am I here? And why was there a Dementor-”

Remus still sounds weary, but not frantic anymore, as he says, “I think we should all sit and calm down for a moment.” 

Harry doesn’t protest as he is led to a kitchen, passing a hallway with peeling wallpaper. Everything inside is dark, despite the lights. As he plops down on the table, a large block of chocolate is thrust into his face by Sirius, “Eat, you look way too pale for me to be comfortable.” 

Harry just looks at him. 

Somewhere in his head, a small voice orders him to talk, or react in a way that doesn't include gaping at his godfather and just sitting in this awful awkward silence that has gripped the kitchen, but he cannot. This is too much.

"Harry?" asks Mrs. Weasley, exchanging an uneasy glance with her husband. "Maybe we should call Poppy and-" 

"What the fuck is going on?" Harry's question is followed by several indignant noises, mainly from Mrs. Weasley and Remus but Harry barely hears them over the sound of his blood rushing in his ears, the roaring downs out everything else, everything but his own blinding rage. 

He's surprised by it but decides to embrace it like an old friend. It’s better than being a sitting duck and letting things happen to him. 

"You were all here?" He asks, his voice is low, but seems thunderous, as not a single peep arises from anyone else. "All summer. You were all here," 

"Harry -"

"I was so fucking worried, that you were dead or maimed or something that you weren’t telling me about. You didn't say a fucking THING! In those damn letters, and I kept wondering what I've done to deserve this! I've been miserable since the moment I got back to that place, I was nearly out of my mind! And you've been all here, all buddies having a laugh over me?" 

"Harry," 

"A fucking dementor nearly sucked my soul dry today!" He slams his hand on the wooden table and it burns, but he doesn't care. "A man kidnapped me and then shoved me back to my house, defenseless and alone, I was so alone and you were all here?!" 

"We didn't know!" 

"Didn't know?! Didn't _I_ deserve to know?! Do you have ANY idea how hard it's been for me?! I was scared and alone, and… and you couldn't care enough to tell me that you were together the whole time? You couldn't bother writing something more than 'We're alive, don't you flip out' and just expect me to sit in my place like a good little boy until you’d bother coming for me-" 

He's out of breath, so he stops himself, his eyes glazed and his face flushed. He had no idea he had been this mad. No idea at all. But it feels good to let it out, finally. He could never have done it with the Dursleys.

"I was the one who faced him," his voice is lower this time, he's tired of shouting. "I was there when he killed Cedric. When he tortured me, and I was the one who had to duel him and take the _corpse_ of a friend back with me...did you all just expect me to go on my way with a pat on the head while you're doing… whatever the hell this is?" 

"Harry, please just give us a chance to explain," 

"What else can I do?" Harry's not really asking. He looks at the melted chocolate clenched in Sirius's hand and is morbidly reminded of his own state. He knows how sad it is to compare oneself to melted chocolate. 

"We weren't hiding things from you on purpose Harry-" Sirius begins but before he can say anything else, the door opens behind him and there's a loud clatter and muttered curse, and suddenly chaos begins anew. 

"FILTHY MUDBLOODS IN MY HOUSE! I WON'T HAVE IT! BEGONE YOU FILTHY ANIMALS, BE GONE!" Harry flinches at the sudden screeching. Which faintly reminds him of Uncle Vernon. 

Sirius dashes out of his chair, chocolate still in his hand, and Tonks is profusely apologizing over the yelling and rambling on about a broken vase, Remus calmly gets up from his own chair to help and they all wait, just staring at each other as the screaming continues in the background. 

"-DISGRACE OF THIS FAMILY! SHOULD HAVE DISOWNED YOU WHEN I HAD THE CHANCE YOU ROTTING PIECE OF FILTH! "

"Shut up woman!" Sirius hollers back at her and seizes the curtains, almost wrenching them off their hanging place as he draws them together. It's silent again. Harry glares at a salt shaker, which is upturned and spilling salt on the table, refusing to acknowledge Ron and Hermione's beseeching glances. 

"Harry?" Sirius asks once he sits back on his chair, this time scooting a little closer to Harry. "Why don't you just munch on this," he hands Harry the ruined chocolate. "And we explain everything, alright? I know you're tired-"

"Stop that," Harry tells him but takes the offered treat nonetheless. "I'm not a child." This Sirius, unsurprisingly, doesn't act like the imaginary one at all, and Harry guiltily thinks that he likes the one in his head better.

"No, you're not." Remus agrees. "But you've been through a rough ordeal today, nobody is expecting you to be fine with any of this. The chocolate helps." 

"I'll make you some hot chocolate as well," Mrs. Weasley says with a motherly smile, getting to her feet. 

"This place is the headquarters of the Order of Phoenix." Sirius starts. "It also happens to be my ancestral home, you've already had the displeasure of meeting my mother," Sirius pauses for Harry to exclaim or show any sort of outward emotion, but he passively stares back at his godfather and Sirius cringes. 

Tonight is going to be a long one. 

##

Water dribbles down from the slanted roofs, shadows scram like rodents, from one corner to the other, the sky is the color of a storm and there's a definite chill in the air that cannot be entirely blamed on the weather, but rather the sheer atmosphere of the place.

There are faded posters stuck to the narrow walls, aged over time in a way that indicates they're part of them now, and cannot be separated, there are whispers within the breaks, damp and wheezing. Anything and everything can be found here. 

Rosier is used to this, he has spent the better part of his life in Knockturn Alley and whereas strolling in this place at this time of the night is an unimaginable feat for some, it doesn't affect him at all, in fact to anyone else, he looks rather happy to be there. The man's hands are in his pockets, his steps confident, echoing off the walls louder than one might dare to be here, he's wearing pitch-black robes, and the only thing giving his identity away- not that's he particularly concerned about that- is his blonde hair and the telltale green eyes. 

His robes swish upon the damp ground, and his eyebrow crooks once he comes to a stop in front of a closed shop. Rosier regards the shop for a moment and then draws his wand, his shoulders drawn back. 

A voice behind him hisses in alarm. "I'm here!" the voice furiously whispers, but Rosier doesn't turn. "No need to wake the whole bloody street!"

Instead of withdrawing his wand, Evan Rosier waves it in a circular motion over his head and mutters a quick 'Silencio'. 

"You have the intelligence of a toad, Dolohov," Rosier sneers, his mouth dramatically curled down to show his displeasure with the other man as he rolls on the heels of his feet to face him. 

Dolohov is crouched in a crook in the wall, only narrow enough to fit one person, slander them in the shadows. 

"You're the one loitering as if you own the place!" Dolohov cries, a large frown on his own face. Rosier regards him with disgust. 

"It's burning," he says, his eyes flicking down to his forearm for less than a second. "Which means you screwed up," he takes a step closer. "Which further means that your pink bitch screwed up. Which means we're all screwed up too." 

"It wasn't my fault, Rosier, come off your high horse," says Dolohov. "I did what my lord asked of me, whether it didn't work out or not isn't my problem. I did my duties."

"Your _duty_ was kidnapping a fifteen-year-old boy, and I don't see one hiding in your robes now," Rosier looks around. "The order found out. There's a mole in the ministry, either that or your snitch is compromised."

"She's not," Dolohov mutters, and Rosier's sneer expands across his entire face. He's sleeping with her, of course, Rosier cannot see how anyone could, but Dolohov seems the type. "She says that no one at the ministry even noticed the dementors missing," 

"Then why don't you tell _that_ to our Lord once he's asking for a boy? I'm sure that will bode with him just fine," 

"They were watching him already! A bloody Auror was tailing the boy!" 

Rosier's eyes narrow. "Which one?" 

"Black and big, probably Shacklebolt." They stand in contemplative silence for a beat, Rosier rolls his wand beneath his fingers with a thoughtful frown.

"Kingsley Shacklebolt." he drawls, almost as if he's talking to himself. "He wasn't in The Order before. So, they're recruiting,"

"How the bloody hell should I know?" Rosier ignores him.

"Scram to your little hole in the wall, Dolohov. I don't want to see your disgusting face until our Lord calls for you." 

"What do I do about the Potter brat? We can't send out any more dementors." 

Rosier smirks and turns away, flicking his wand back into his sleeve. 

"You'll pay." He promises as he walks away, hands back in his pockets and his steps fading further and further away.


	4. The Real One's Much More Gory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings for; Explicit language, explicit depiction of torture, violence, gore and explicit language. 
> 
> We cherish every bit of feedback we receive on this story, thank you all for reading it and enjoy the chapter.
> 
> Next Update Saturday, 2nd May.

_"I guess you think you know this story._

_You don't. The real one's much more gory._

_The phoney one, the one you know,_

_Was cooked up years and years ago,_

_And made to sound all soft and sappy_

_just to keep the children happy."_

_-Roald Dahl (Cinderella)_

...

No one talks during dinner, and Harry feels responsible for the uncomfortable glances and subdued dialogue around the table. He doesn't eat much either, even though he hasn't had anything to eat since that piece of toast that morning, and the chocolate bulks Sirius and Mrs. Weasley forced down his throat.

Mrs. Weasley's cooking is, as always, impeccable and Harry slightly regrets his lack of appetite. Sirius and Remus have decided to give him his space and are sitting together now, silently whispering amongst themselves as Ron and Hermione do the same on the other side of the table but keep throwing him a glance every once in a while as well.

Harry's still mad at them, so even though he has missed the two of them all summer, he stifles the urge to gaze back, and instead pushes his food around sullenly, eyeing the burnt area on the table where his accidental magic had acted up. No one has bothered to fix it.

Sirius's words ring in his head a few times, with phrases such as 'resistance against you-know-who' and 'Dumbledore insisting on absolute secrecy' bolded in the mental speech. It makes some amount of sense but Harry is too mad and irrational to accept it as such. He's giving himself some leeway to be petulant, he knows how ridiculous he must look but he doesn't care. Harry's tired. He really is.

Bill and Charlie are sitting on either side of him, with the woman named Tonks and Ginny across him, Ginny is almost on the verge of passing out as she silently chortles at Tonks' impressions, Harry very pointedly ignores them too.

Finally, Molly Weasley takes pity on him after she's finished attending to everyone's needs. She comes up behind his chair, her warm hands settling on his shoulder, and slowly leans to whisper in his ear.

"Why don't Ron and Hermione show you to your room?" she says and then raises her voice. "You're bunking with Ron, and Nymphadora kindly deposited your trunk there already." she squeezes his shoulders and Harry nods, feeling mildly guilty that he's upsetting her.

Tonks's hair flares a deep purple as Mrs. Weasley mentions her full name, but she doesn't do anything other than mildly frown.

Mrs. Weasley smiles. "Great! I'll send you up a plate too, in case you felt like eating later. Ronnie does it all the time,"

"Mom!" Ron exclaims but then quickly ducks his head as he catches Harry's eyes.

"None of that, young man! Now hurry up and get Harry to his room, the poor boy looks exhausted."

"She's just doing it because there's a meeting," Fred stage-whispers to his twin and he nods fervently.

"She's basically throwing us out," George agrees with a dramatically wounded expression, a hand over his chest, and Mrs. Weasley huffs.

"Stop it, you two! And to bed with you as well, we have a lot of cleaning to do tomorrow."

"A meeting?" Harry asks for the first time since dinner has started, prompting Remus to look up from Sirius to smile at him. "Yes," he says mildly, he looks much more relaxed now. Harry vaguely notices how younger he looks when he's around Sirius.

"Nothing to worry about, just routine reports," he continues and Sirius nods along, giving Harry a small, barely noticeable wink before Remus steals his attention again.

Mrs. Weasley sends Ron and Hermione trailing in front of Harry in a walk of shame, with Ron holding a plate for Harry if he 'happens to be hungry' later. They don't try talking to Harry, as if they know better than that, and Harry's glad. He might have let out the remaining dredges of his anger on them if they did.

The others, especially Ginny, give him a wide berth as well, and Harry's left feeling a little isolated as he glances at the severed house-elf heads that are mounted on the stairwell walls, and Crookshanks tangled in his steps as he walks. He eyes Sirius's mom's portrait as well, shuddering to think about the kind of house his godfather had been brought up in, which isn't a pretty image at all.

The second floor is not much different from the first, the hallway is a bit wider, and there are about seven doors, separating each room. Ron and Hermione silently guide him to the third one from the left.

"We do have a bathroom here," Ron says, quietly, and unlike his usual self. "But there's another one at the end of the corridor too, if you, you know…" he trails off and sets Harry's plate on the desk.

Hermione awkwardly sits at the edge of an unmade bed that must be Ron's, and Harry leans back against the closed door, just taking them in. They looked… kind of pathetic.

"Nice holidays?" he asks them, not meaning to be overly sarcastic as he does.

They flinch. "Harry… you need to realize," Ron says, joining Hermione on his bed. "We didn't know the dementor attack was on you."

"He's right, we kept asking them what was going on and they didn't tell us anything, and everyone was just freaking out, Sirius was beside himself… he couldn't contact Remus or get any news from anyone… it was a mess." Hermione finishes lamely, slumping on the bed.

"I was really worried about you," Harry says, watching them flush. "Your letters were so weird and distorted, I thought something had happened to you guys, something bad and you weren't telling me...I was wrong to worry, it seems."

"We were worried about you too, Harry, you're not being fair!" Hermione's hands ball into fists, her hair frizzes around her face.

"At least we wrote something to you! You never told us about yourself! You just kept asking about _us_ , and we couldn't answer those because Dumbledore made us promise not to tell you a thing!"

Harry scowls. "This isn't my fault,"

"And it's not our fault either," Ron says. "It just had to happen. We're sorry that we were cooped here and you were with the muggles, if it's any consolation, I don't think we had that much fun either...the other day I cleaned so much that I couldn't feel my hands for the rest of it."

"He's being dramatic," Hermione says, rolling her eyes irritably.

"We're being used as manual labor, Hermione. You're just drooling because Sirius said you could use the books if you helped in the cleaning,"

"That's outrageous!"

"No, that's you!"

"Stop arguing, you guys," Harry says and heads for his trunk, but then changes his mind and heads for the bed instead, dropping down between his friends with a loud sigh.

"I missed you," he says and then flops on his back, he is soon joined by Hermione plopping down next to him, her hair brushing against Harry's face, and then Ron too, a bit awkwardly, on his other side. They all watch the bed's canopy as Harry quickly gives them a short summary of his summer holidays and the dementor attack. He learns that his 'kidnapper' had been Kingsley Shacklebolt, an Order member and a ministry Auror.

"Huh," Harry says, "I did hear Tonks mentioning a Kingsley."

"They're Auror Partners," Ron says, "Apparently, really good together on the field too. Kingsley used to work with Sirius, like...way back during the first war."

"Wait, seriously?" he didn't know that Sirius was an Auror.

Hermione hums. "We've heard Sirius mention it in passing. He doesn't like talking about his past much. He talks about you a lot, though."

This bit of information fills Harry's chest with a warm glow, and he has a sudden image of imaginary Sirius scoffing at him. 'Really, you're choosing that guy?' he jabs his thumb at Sirius, eyes narrowed. Harry manages not to snort.

Harry and the other two lay on the bed for a bit more before Hermione mentions sleep. "I'm gonna do some light reading first," she says as she gets up. "You guys should sleep too," she gives Harry a firm hug. "You look exhausted."

"Her room is right across ours, and she's bunking with Ginny," Ron says as she closes the door behind her. "So don't be alarmed if she barges in tomorrow at the crack of dawn to study here. It's her new thing."

He and Ron mess around with some exploding snap cards but then decide to retreat too. Harry feels exhausted and glad that Hedwig is already sleeping in her cage, he keeps in mind to let her out tomorrow.

He eats about two spoonfuls of the food on the desk as Ron changes into his pajamas and then changes into his own as well.

"Good night Harry," Ron says around a huge yawn breaking his face.

Harry smiles at him and clicks the lights off. "Good night Ron,"

"I'm glad you're finally here," the red-haired boy groggily mutters and Harry's smile softens.

"Me too."

##

He is back in the graveyard. He knows that place better than the back of his hand now, cold and desolate as always. As if the life is sucked out of it, the soil is hard under his toes and the grass a dead, lifeless grey. As he looks up, there are flashes of light. And everything is so horrifying in its familiarity that it takes him a while to notice what's wrong with the image.

Cedric's eyes aren't lifeless, staring into nothingness the way only dead people do.

They are still wide open, unblinking, but this time in pure, withering terror. He's still on the ground, just like always. But he isn't _still._

Harry never knew there would come a day where he'd prefer him like that.

But as he sees Bellatrix twirl her wand over him, as he sees him writhe, bending and twisting and clawing at the ground with cracked, bloody nails, mouth open in a silent scream, blood bubbling out of the corners, trickling down his face, Harry finds himself wishing to see the familiar blank face.

Corpses cannot do the thing Cedric is doing now. Suffering.

There is a sharp, unhinged laugh echoing in the air as Bellatrix waves her wand above Cedric's body over and over again. Sick pleasure is plastered all over her face.

And then Cedric _screams_. And he should have been screaming long ago, given the state he is in, there was no way he could have stayed so silent, and it had been so _disturbing._ All that writhing and pain to be endured mutely, so quietly.

But the sound that erupts from his throat is not his own. It's feminine and Harry recognizes it before he can finish his half-formed thoughts, incoherent and loud.

Mrs. Malfoy.

##

When Harry jolts awake, his fist is already in his mouth. _Force of habit,_ he thinks. But he's glad that none of his screams had disturbed Ron. Or anyone else, for that matter.

At least his scar isn't hurting this time.

Peeling the sweat-soaked blanket off of him, he swings his legs over the bed, sitting up as his legs touch the cold floor. At this rate, he's going to have permanent bite-shaped scars on his hand.

He looks at the door, swallows harshly, and walks over to it barefoot. The chill of the floor is almost comforting.

When he touches the doorknob, he's consumed by an irrational rush of fear that it would be locked. It can't be, of course not. No one here would lock him in, besides, Ron is here with him.

Harry almost doesn't want to try and see if he's right. But the walls are closing in again and he doesn't want to wake Ron up.

He twists the doorknob. There's the unmistakable click of the door unlocking, and he pulls it open. The air outside the room isn't any less cold, or damp, or gloomy. But it feels better nonetheless.

He makes his way down the stairs, aimlessly. He doesn't know what he wants to do, but he sure as hell isn't going back to sleep. Somehow he feels this part of his nights has been easier to deal with at the Dursleys. There he knew he was locked up with nowhere to go… here, he'd rather die but stay in that room.

Right before he enters the kitchen, though, he hears noises. He freezes. What time is it? Who else is awake at this time? Frowning, he steps closer, almost completely pressing his ear to the door. He can distinguish two voices, talking.

Crouching down, he puts his ear right next to the keyhole. He knows he is being nosy, but goddamnit, he's been kept in the dark for so long.

It's Tonks and Bill, he realises. The voices are more discernible now, and he can make out what they're saying.

"- who he is," Tonks is saying.

"Well, Argent is too much of a valuable resource, it's better for everyone involved if his identity was kept a secret, isn't it?" Bill replies.

"Doesn't make me any less curious. What kind of a code name is Argent? He could have chosen something more badass."

"Really? The guy is a skilled double agent, probably twice our age, and his name is what you're worried about?"

"It matters!"

"More than the information he's giving us? C'mon, it's a perfectly fine name, _Nymphadora._ " Harry can't see Bill, but he's pretty sure that he's sporting a smirk.

"Whatever," Tonks grumbles, "Don't call me tha-"

"CONSTANT VIGILANCE!"

Harry jumps and almost falls back on his butt when he hears Moody's thundering voice. Had he been in the kitchen the whole time?

"Moody! How long were you...?" Tonks says, her voice slightly alarmed as if she too, had been caught off guard by his sudden yell. There were very few who weren't.

"During times such as these," Moody sounds just as gruff as he always does, but his voice still sounds oddly strained. "Constant vigilance is even more important than ever!"

Then the door blasts open, and Harry gapes at the three people in the room. The phrase 'deer in headlights' has never fit anyone better.

He slowly straightens up, flushing, "Uhh… I was thirsty?"

Tonks and Bill are gaping right back at him, looking kind of sheepish. Mad-Eye is reclining on a, probably transfigured, armchair, his non-prosthetic leg in white bandages.

Harry takes in Tonks' and Bill's appearances, they both look slightly haggard and almost as tired as Harry feels. He wonders how he looks.

His eyes go to the large clock hanging on the wall, ticking almost ominously, the pendulum below is swinging back and forth in a monotonous rhythm. _3:40_. It was almost four in the morning. What were they doing up?

But he already knows, doesn't he? They'd probably had more reason than him to be awake, and judging by Moody's leg and their looks, they'd probably gone out on some kind of 'mission' and returned recently. He almost wants to ask if anyone was seriously hurt, but then changes his mind. They wouldn't be talking like that if someone were, and they wouldn't bother telling him if that were the case either.

Moody, unsurprisingly, is the first one to speak, "Well, would you look at that?" he looks as if he wants to smack both Bill and Tonks upside the head. "The kid overheard you two yapping."

"It wasn't as if we knew," Bill mumbles, being the first one who looks away from Harry's tense form.

"You shouldn't have to know!" Moody firmly taps his finger to his temple. "It's all about constant -"

"Yes, we know," Tonks cuts him off and then smiles at Harry. "Wotcher Harry," she says with a small smile, and Harry hesitantly nods back at her.

"Why are you awake?" Bill asks him, mildly bewildered.

"That's not what you should be asking, Weasley! You should be asking how much he's heard!"

Harry's mouth falls open again and he wrings his hands, he thinks about lying, but the thought is fleeting and not processed at all. He's a terrible liar.

"So?" Moody grunts. "How much did you hear, Potter?"

Harry imagines, in Moody's place, just for a moment, Barty Crouch Jr. instead, licking his lips and trembling with excitement. He shakes his head to expel the image out of his head.

"Not much," he mutters, looking down at his toes. "I just came down. I'm sorry."

"It's alright Harry," Tonks says and waves him closer with her hand.

"It's really not," Moody grumbles but quietens down otherwise.

"Insomnia, huh?" says Bill, crossing his arms on the kitchen table. "I've heard you had a rough day,"

Well, not exactly heard it, Harry thinks with a flush. Pretty much everyone was there during his outburst just a few hours ago.

"Yeah something like that," he hadn't come here for company, he needs the exact opposite of that, but he figures that he cannot escape that easily just yet. 'Just grab a glass of water and then bail after another apology,' he orders himself. That should be good enough for them.

"Harry here is somewhat of a rebel," Tonks drawls with a teasing smile at Harry as if expecting him to shout 'GUILTY!' with a grin of his own. Instead, Harry's face goes blank for a moment, and then he slowly nods along as he replays Tonks saying something similar in his bedroom. Quickly turning around to look for the glasses, Harry bites his lower lip. He hasn't been in this kitchen long enough to know where they kept the cutlery.

"I don't know about that," Bill replies as Harry rummages through the cupboards. "Mom sings his praises all the time. According to her, Harry's the best-behaved boy she knows."

As Harry turns to raise his eyebrows at Bill, the older boy winks at him. "It's true," he says and points at his dragon fang earring. "She's not exactly a fan of my fashion sense."

"I like it," Harry awkwardly turns and heads for the sink. He needs his water to bolt out of here. Maybe head back to his own room, or hide in the loo until morning, he's not sure which he'd rather do now.

"Oh really?" Bill exchanges a smirk with Tonks who rolls her eyes, "Maybe you should put in a word for me in front of mom? She'd have kittens for sure."

Harry furiously grabs the water tap and thrusts the glass under the rush. He needs to leave, now. He wonders if they can see the colour rising in his cheeks.

"Stop teasing him," Tonks finally says, as she sees Harry's shoulders tense, "It's four in the morning, let him be."

"He doesn't mind," Bill waves her off, Moody is still silently staring at Harry's back.

"I don't mind," Harry hastily replies, closing the tap and drowning half of his glass in one long gulp. Then he fills it again.

Bill gives him a wide grin. "So, seriously," he continues with the same easy-going tone.

"How much did you hear? Do we need to bring out Obliviators?"

"No," Harry closes the tap with a firm shake of his head. "Heard nothing, saw nothing, the kitchen was empty when I came in," against his better judgment, he takes another long swig of his glass. "I was just leaving,"

"Oh, if only mom knew," Bill laughs and then leans back in his seat. "You don't have to be in such a hurry, it's not like we're gonna kill you or anything,"

"William," it's Moody this time, silently growling.

"I'm just saying that we're good company if he cannot sleep." Bill points out, shrugging in a way that jostles his ponytail. "That's why he was sneaking around in the first place, right?"

Harry regards Bill with narrowed eyes. "Maybe," he finally admits. "But I actually should be heading upstairs."

"Alright."

"Potter, hang on," that's Moody, grappling for his cane as he pulls himself to his feet, "I'll walk you up,"

"He's not a baby, Moody, he knows his way up the stairs," Bill snaps, his eyes losing some of their previous humor.

Moody's fake eye swivels unnervingly as he stares at Bill. "The same way he knew his way to the kitchen?"

Bill shrugs and looks away, mumbling a good night to Harry as he and Moody step out. The glass in Harry's hands stays steady but the water sloshes as he deliberately slows his pace for the injured Auror to catch up, Moody throws him a look but doesn't complain.

They're reaching the mounted house-elf heads on the wall before Moody sets his cane in Harry's way.

Harry turns to look at him, "Yes, sir?"

"Do you know that saying, Potter? The one that goes 'Curiosity kills the kneazle'?"

Harry tenses but his face stays passively calm. "Not sure if I do," he says, the cool glass offering some measure of comfort in his hands. Moody grunts.

"Well I'm sure you don't need me to hand feed the meaning to you, lad," he says, after a meaningful pause.

Harry has the urge to drink more water from his glass but holds Moody's eyes instead. "Not at all," he says.

"Don't go snooping in places that don't concern you, boy, knowing too much means the more are the chances of you losing your head. Green tongues and crimson necks, that's another saying right there."

"I'll keep that in mind," Harry turns to leave but hears Moody still grumbling behind him.

"We both know that you won't," the man says, quite gruffly. "It'll cost you a life someday."

Harry's more than sure that it will.


	5. The Boy in The Mirror

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings for; Explicit language and mild implied/referenced torture.
> 
> Elen and I worked very hard on plotting this fic, every little detail is accounted for to drive the story forward and present enjoyable reading material. That being said, Harry and Draco's relationship might seem like it's on a slow burner for now, but all will be rectified very soon.
> 
> “All great achievements require time.” -Maya Angelou
> 
> Next update Saturday, 9th May.

_ “I look into my glass,  _

_ And view my wasting skin,  _

_ And say, “Would God it came to pass,  _

_ My heart had shrunk as thin!”" _

_ -Thomas Hardy (I Look Into My Glass) _

_... _

It’s dark outside the window, the clouds a dark, almost murky blackish-grey, as rain droplets furiously pelt the fogged glass, so the only thing he can see is his own distorted reflection staring back at him, eyes hollow and face gaunt. The gentle rocking of the Hogwarts Express moving can lull him right to sleep if he allows them to. 

He hasn’t slept much in the last week. Every time he closes his eyes, he’s assaulted by the same image again and again. The times when exhaustion does manage to draw him into restless unconsciousness, he is plunged into nightmares. Nightmares he can’t seem to be able to wake himself from. And so Draco has taken to staying awake as much as possible. 

He knows it’s ridiculous, and that he can’t stay awake forever, but the days he  _ can _ stay awake are the days he won’t have to see his mother’s face twisted in agony, even as they are few and far between. The effects are quite visible on his face, and he hadn’t done anything about it until he had to actually get on the train, where he had taken the time to at least glamour the dark circles nestled under his eyes. 

They’re burning as he stares and stares and  _ stares _ at his reflection as if willing it to get better. Pansy and Blaise have long since stopped bothering him, finally taking the hint that he isn’t in the mood to talk. A few times, he saw Pansy sending him narrowed-eyed glances, and it's putting him on edge. So, she’s the eye-keeper, Draco hums to himself. The Dark Lord, or perhaps Bellatrix, has probably told her to keep an eye on him, make sure he’s on the right lane, and all this must have made her suspicious. And not in a good way, she is suspicious of  _ him _ , wondering if his loyalties might be wavering. They are. 

Draco wishes that the compartment seats would swallow her up on the spot. That's how much he hates her, and how little he actually cares. And now he will have to deal with her the whole year. She can go snitch to whoever the hell she likes, she could bring Bella in his dorm to torture him in the middle of the night, even go tattle to the Dark Lord himself… Draco doesn't care. He is sure he  _ will _ care if Bella was to start torturing him, but right now? Not so much. 

Blaise isn’t so subtle with his glances either, but while Pansy’s contain an undercurrent of malice and threats, Blaise merely looks concerned. They don’t know his mother is dead. 

They know something  _ must have  _ happened, but not what. 

They don’t  _ know _ , and it’s driving him insane, he wants to kick and scream and yell and tell everyone how his mother had been killed so brutally, snuffed out of existence by one last wave of a wand. No one is aware of her suffering, what she had gone through in her last living hours. What she’d been forced to endure at the hands of her own sister.

It feels insulting. She deserved better, so much better than not to even be acknowledged in her death. 

That's probably why the Dark Lord 'forbade' his father from announcing the news. Torture and gore wasn't enough for him, he wanted  _ oblivion.  _ He wanted Narcissa Malfoy to be background noise in existence, just a whispered name at gatherings, spoken as a lesson, a warning, and passed onto the wind as people slowly ceased to remember such a name at all.

It's a fate worse than death. 

His lips are pressed into a thin line as he thinks back to her funeral. It should have been grand, there should have been hundreds of people present, paying their respects to Narcissa Malfoy. Flowers and speeches and feasts in her honor. 

But instead, what she’d gotten was a transfigured casket and three people. Father had been allowed to take her body, and he’d told Draco to be grateful that they were getting even that much, and in that moment, Draco wanted nothing more than to lock Lucius up in the wooden box with his mother. 

He shouldn't be  _ thankful  _ for getting to bury his  _ mother  _ in secret. 

Severus had been there too, a silent presence. He hadn’t spoken a word. Draco had glared at him instead of what he really wanted to do, to curse him into oblivion, to stomp his feet and demand how  _ dare _ he show up at the funeral after letting  _ that _ happen?

But in the end, Draco hadn’t said anything. All the energy had been drained out of him, every last bit of it. He’d just stood and watched, eyes dry, hands clenched at his sides in an attempt to stem the shaking. His father’s eyes had been glistening, and Draco cursed him in his head with every foul name under the sun, because if Draco couldn’t cry, then  _ he _ didn’t have any right to cry either. No one did,  _ everything _ about her death had been unfair, and he refuses to validate that unfairness by throwing a tantrum about it.

In the end, after his father and Severus had left-Neither of them insisting that Draco tag along- Draco had sat beside the headstone for a long time. So long that his limbs had started cramping, and even the shaking had stopped. He’d wondered what Mother would have said if she had seen him sitting cross-legged in the dirt, and then quickly stifled the thought.

Before leaving, he’d laid a single daffodil over the freshly dug up earth, in front of the headstone.

Draco leans his head back on the chair, finally breaking away from his reflection, which doesn’t even look like him anymore. Crabbe and Goyle are stuffing themselves full of chocolate frogs and sugar quills. Usually, by this time, Draco would have gone on a tour of the train with them trailing behind him, to antagonise Potter and his friends. 

Right now, just the thought of getting up from his seat for anything other than getting out of the train when they reach Hogwarts, makes him slump further in his seat. 

Blaise gives him another look, surprised that Draco has been reduced to a slouching lump of a body, soulless in every sense of the word. It's also taken as a warning and Draco can read the message clearly 'Slytherins don't slouch, Malfoys even less so'. He couldn’t care less.

Draco stares back at Blaise, challenging him to voice his thoughts and the dark-skinned boy only holds his gaze for a moment before glancing back at his book. 

"Draco?" Crabbe calls his name with a full mouth, dried chocolate smudges cover his face and were it any other day, Draco would have sneered at him. 

He looks at Crabbe, silently prompting him to speak up before he mildly remembers that Crabbe and Goyle cannot take such cues. 

"Yes?" he tries to sound casual, nonchalant. As if he still had a mother, but his attempts prove to be futile, he still sounds weak and strained. 

Crabbe and Goyle exchange a look before Crabbe holds out a chocolate frog out to Draco with his smudged hand. 

Draco just takes it and then leans back against the seat once again, his fingers lax around the chocolate frog, and his eyes slowly drooping before he forces them apart with a subtle pinch under his wrist. He cannot fall asleep on the train. 

Blaise puts his book away. "Why don't we go look for the trolley ourselves, Draco? I want some droobles,"

Goyle reaches into his pile while trying to stuff his mouth with four sugar wands but Blaise merely raises a brow at him and sneers. "No thanks, " he says to Goyle and reaches for Draco's hand, it's much warmer closed around his fingers, enough to jolt Draco to a standing position as well.

"We will be back shortly," Blaise comments casually and steps out of the compartment, dragging Draco behind him. Draco willingly goes along. 

Blaise doesn't speak to him as they pass other students crowding the cramped halls, some of them give Draco a weird look, taking a double-take as they get a good look at him, and there is a subdued murmur or two trailing behind them, but Blaise strides on, unheeded to any of the whispers. 

Finally, they come to stand before the train's bathroom, Blaise waits a moment for the hall to get less crowded then pushes Draco in, quickly sliding in himself and locking the door behind him. 

"If someone saw--" Draco isn't sure where he's going with this. If someone saw them… what? Who cared. 

"I don't care," Blaise snaps, crossing his arms. "I don't know what happened to you, and I don't know how long  _ this, _ " he gestures at Draco and the blonde raises his eyebrows "- is going to last. But you need to get it together, Draco,"

Draco doesn't answer him, but looks past the other boy's shoulder, catching his face in the mirror gazing back at him for the first time in almost five days. He barely dressed himself in his robes today. Mother would have that same pinched expression on her face at his disheveled appearance.

"Are you listening? " Blaise snaps the words, unaware of the involuntary shudder that racks through Draco like a jolt of lightning. 

_ "Are you listening?" _ Bella's rotting breath against his face, burning into his nostril. 

"Never say those words to me again," Draco grits the words out by the sheer force of will, still gazing at himself in the mirror. His image stares back at him, weak, pathetic, pale and shaking. Draco doesn't recognise him… the boy in the mirror, he wishes that it stays there in that mirror, and stops following the real him around. 

Blaise just gives him a look. "You're drawing unnecessary attention to yourself. You need to get a hold of it before anyone else notices, Draco. Do you hear me? Your life's on the line, it must be or you wouldn't act like this. "

He nods at the basin. "Wash your face, and fix your clothes. You don't need this now, you need the old Draco Malfoy back in order to survive or you won't make it past the common room. "

With that, Blaise turns and leaves the small bathroom, softly closing the door behind him and leaving Draco all by himself, sitting haggardly on the closed toilet seat, feeling slightly nauseous. 

  
  


##

  
  


The familiar hustle and bustle of platform nine and three quarters on September 1st was welcomed after the chaos and uncertainty of the past few days. Harry let the sounds of owls, cats, and other animals, of people, saying goodbye, the mundane spells, cover him like his favorite blanket. 

Grimmauld Place was in shambles, in every sense of the word. During his stay there Harry saw every sort of people flooing the headquarters at all hours of the day, some faces that were familiar and others that weren't, some were severely injured- and carefully kept away from Harry's sight- and others just tensed.

True to Ron's word, they all set to cleaning out the rooms to make it somewhat habitable, while Hermione insisted on finishing up their homework before it came to cramming everything overnight, this being their O.W.L year, she sounded a bit too high strung and it caused her and Ron to go at each other like cats and dogs… honestly, Harry wished they would just snog and get this over with already, but he didn't interfere much. 

Harry got to spend some time with the real Sirius, which surprisingly meant spending as much time with Remus as well since those two were attached at the hip; whenever the other man was in the room Sirius was either already with him or distracted by his presence, as if always eager to start a new conversation, or crack a nasty joke for the werewolf's sake, or basically do anything but clean the house under Mrs. Weasley’s supervision, which led to some hilarious dialogue exchange between Mrs. Weasley and Sirius whilst cleaning. 

Not that Harry was complaining much. 

Sirius, while not as much fun as his imaginary counterpart, was much more invested in Harry than he had been expecting, he pulled Harry and Remus into a few pranks and  _ adored  _ getting on Mrs. Weasley's nerves, much to the woman's simultaneous annoyance and amusement.

Harry liked being around Remus as well, the man was a constant quiet force and quite knowledgeable, there were days when Hermione would trail behind the man like a lost puppy, with a textbook in her hands, asking a myriad of questions at any time of the day while Remus politely obliged and answered as many as he could. 

Argent wasn't mentioned again. And Harry and the others weren't allowed in any meetings, much to the boy's ongoing frustration. 

This morning, Moody, Shacklebolt- Harry's rude kidnapper- and Tonks arrived with a few cars from the ministry to transfer Harry safely to the train station, an occurrence that excited Mr. Weasley beyond words, and Harry too, upon seeing the man jovially herding the children into the car while explaining about each part and the dynamics. His funny pronunciation and child-like wonder were enough for Harry to get out of his gloom regarding the whole 'prefect' fiasco. 

Ron and Hermione were Prefects, so what? Harry tried to sell the position short, forcing himself to accept the change with the least amount of jealousy. So what if he had been miserable and depressed all summer? That wasn't a valid enough reason to receive a prefect's badge. Besides, Ron deserved some recognition for once. 

So Harry hugged them both and tried to sound as excited as he should have been feeling, smiling widely at the dinner party thrown for this very same occasion as he felt withered and sullen inside. His friends deserved this more than anyone, Harry thinks to himself

In his game, he imagines the three of them with matching badges, and Ron with a better broom still, because even though his new 'Cleansweep' had been a tremendous upgrade, Harry thought that a Nimbus would have made him even happier. 

As they reach the train, Ron and Hermione don't let him sit alone, and quickly bunch Harry with Ginny's compartment, where Neville and another girl are sitting by themselves, Harry takes his friends' trunks and sits next to Neville, exchanging a quick polite greeting as Ginny introduces the Ravenclaw girl as 'Luna Lovegood'. 

"Are those radishes?" asks Harry, pointing at the girl's earrings. 

Luna nods slowly. "Keeps the Wrackspurts away."

Harry takes her word for it, and let's the other three entertain him, distracting him from another sulking feat that he seems so prone to, lately. 

Nearly two hours later, while the sky is the color of Harry's school robes and rain pelts the windows, Ron barges in, looking downright exhausted, followed by Hermione.

"Merlin, kill me now," Ron moans and plops down next to Harry, wordlessly reaching for the sugar quill in Harry’s hand. Harry smirks at him in wry amusement. "That bad?" he asks. 

"Worse!" 

"Stop it, Ron, honestly," says Hermione, taking Crookshanks in her arms before settling down next to Ginny. "It wasn't that bad," she explains. "We were just doing rounds on the train, "

"The whole train!" Ron retorts with a full mouth. 

"What else did you expect, Ronald?" 

The boy shrugs helplessly, "Dishing out detentions, messing with Slytherin gits, obviously,"

"Anything exciting happened at the meeting?" Harry asks half-heartedly. 

“Well, we saw Malfoy,” Ron starts. “He looked bloody awful.” 

Harry isn't surprised that Malfoy had been made a perfect, with the way he's been kissing Snape’s ass for years. What does surprise him, though, is that he looks anything resembling the word 'awful'. He cannot imagine that pompous boy ever putting up with even one strand of his stupid blonde hair out of place. 

“Really?” 

“Yeah, one would think someone died, or something,” Ron says, looking delighted at the prospect of seeing Malfoy sunken so low. Harry is getting a bad feeling about this, but he doesn’t say anything. Hermione shoots Ron an irritated look, “You shouldn’t say that, Ron.”

“Yeah, whatever. Maybe Bellatrix got to him, paid him a little ‘family visit’,” Ron says the name the same way someone says the 'boogeyman'. 

“Ron!”

But Harry isn’t listening to Hermione berate him, and as his mind catches up with what Ron said, he asks, “Bellatrix? Why would she get to him?” that doesn't sound right, he thinks. The only Bellatrix Harry knows is Bellatrix Lestrange, serving her time in Azkaban with her husband. 

“She’s Malfoy’s aunt, y’know? Don’t tell this to Sirius, but they have a ‘thing’ in their family-” 

“Ron!”

“They might have inherent insanity! That’s all I’m saying, Hermione, calm down!” 

Harry has no interest in what runs in whose family, he has much bigger issues as of the moment.

"Isn’t she in Azkaban? " Harry asks, leaning on the edge of his seat, his mind whirring and his heart beating loudly against his chest.

_ It cannot be _ , he thinks. It cannot be what he's thinking. 

“No,” this time, it’s Neville who speaks up, his voice quivering ever so slightly. Harry turns to him, noticing how pale he has gone. He remembers what Dumbledore had told him, seemingly a whole lifetime ago, about Neville’s parents, and how they’d been driven insane under Bellatrix Lesterange's wand. 

“What do you mean, no?” he asks Neville, maybe more sharply than he had meant to sound.

“Harry,” Hermione starts slowly, brows furrowing, “ The breakout from Azkaban? She was included in the list of escapees,” upon seeing Harry’s blank look, her eyes widen. “How did you not know? Most of them were death eaters. Bellatrix and her husband were included.”

Time stops for Harry, at least that's how he imagines it, his breath catches in his chest and his eyes slowly widen, heedless to his friends calling on him. 

“Are you alright, Harry?” Ginny asks, but he isn't listening to her. Bellatrix was free. That is shocking enough in itself. Bellatrix is free and that means… His dream starts replaying itself over and over again in his head, Mrs. Malfoy's blood splattered against dark marble floors, Malfoy’s face and his screams, horrified and otherworldly.

“When?” He asks hoarsely.

“It was all over the Daily Prophet about two months ago, how did you not know? You were getting the Daily Prophet, right?” Ron says. Harry winces.

“No, I- I canceled the subscription,” he mumbles, a plaguing sense of dread growing in his chest.

“Oh, well, it  _ was _ printing bullshit most of the time.”

"How did we never talk about it?"

Hermione shrugs. "You never asked."

He fights a scowl, before his mind turns to more pressing matters, “Were there,” he swallows, almost afraid of the answer, “Were there any- er, casualties?" Mrs. Malfoy's face flashes before his eyes. "-Caused by Bellatrix? In pureblood families.” 

Ron is frowning at him, “Why would there be deaths in pureblood families?" he sounds puzzled. "It’s all they’re about, isn’t it? Blood purity and all that shit? Their asses are safer than ours. And, if you’re talking about the ‘blood traitor’ bunch,” he makes exaggerated air quotes, “Then, nope. There weren’t. As far as Blood traitors go, there’s not that many of them.”

“Oh,” he says. He doesn’t know what to think. 

“We’d know if there were, of course,” Hermione says, “It would probably be all over the front page of the Daily Prophet. They’re purebloods, bold and important and apparently  _ above  _ others" she leans back, Crookshanks purrs on her lap as she distractedly pats his head. "Unlike the small columns that muggleborns or half-bloods who lose their lives to Death Eater attacks get, somewhere at the back of the paper.” She sounds bitter and angry. 

“High and Above up their own arse, yes,” says Ron, he’s rolling his eyes.

Harry sympathises with her because she's not wrong. The victims and missing persons are barely mentioned in the Daily Prophet these days. He feels a flare of anger at the Ministry’s refusal to acknowledge Voldemort’s return. 

“Right,” Harry mumbles. He wants to laugh at himself or hit himself.  _ Of course, _ it was just a dream. He shouldn’t have thought otherwise. What had he been thinking? That he could now see things that were happening miles away? The idea sounds ridiculous. 

But he cannot completely banish the small tendril of doubt that had crept up in his mind, festering. 

What if Bellatrix Lestrange really killed her sister with her son and husband watching? What if it had really happened and what if Harry had been the only witness? 

_ What if? _


	6. Something Hushed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings for; mild torture, implied referenced child abuse.
> 
> Finally the wait will be over... In a week. Guess who's meeting who in the next chapter and there'll be a cookie in it for you guys ;)
> 
> Next update Saturday, 16th May.

_ “The room I entered was a dream of this room. _

_ Surely all those feet on the sofa were mine. _

_ The oval portrait _

_ of a dog was me at an early age. _

_ Something shimmers, something is hushed up.” _

_ -John Ashbery _

...

"Those go in the cupboard, " Remus says without looking up from the dishes, referring to the freshly dried glasses in Sirius’s hands. He's always preferred to do the chores the muggles way when he can, his mother used to do so and Remus had to admit… the repetitive motions are relaxing, they occupy his thoughts without being intrusive. 

"No," Sirius replies, his voice sour. 

"No?" Remus quirks an eyebrow, finally looking up to his best friend, staring at him with a slight frown. They're alone in the kitchen, with the children all upstairs and the Weasley couple occupying the first floor living room. "They don't go in the cupboards?" Of course, he knows that's not the actual reason why Sirius is being so uncooperative. 

"You are being an idiot, Moony," he says and Remus promptly gets back to the numerous dishes still left from dinner. He had fought for them tooth and nail, finally managing to shoo Molly Weasley away for a short break. He needed this. He needs to feel useful. The full moon is too close for comfort. There's a deep ache already settling in his bones. 

"I'm not being an idiot," he calmly says, ignoring the way Padfoot snorts. "I'm washing the dishes and you promised you'd help. So either stop abusing the cutlery or help me wrap this up so we can go sleep." he so desperately needs sleep. If given the chance, Remus is sure that he can drop dead right there by the dishes. 

"You cannot spend the night alone," Sirius insists, smacking the offending glasses in his hands back on the table with a startling clank, causing Remus to mildly glare at him, hands never pausing in their movement.

"I do it every night, I don't see why I would be having any problems tonight."

Sirius actually growls. "Stop this! Stop pretending you don't know exactly what I'm talking about!" his voice is starting to rise. "Because you do. Stupid doesn't suit you, Moony." 

Remus washes his sud covered hands under the running water and reaches for another plate. "On the contrary, I'm told it's quite a look on me," 

"You went behind my back to Dumbledore." Sirius points a finger at him. "You went to him, and you begged him to let you spend the full moon  _ anywhere  _ else that isn't here, fully  _ aware  _ that I cannot come with you! You're being an idiot!"

"I've managed twelve years, Sirius. I'm not," _ 'gonna need you' _ , that's how Remus was going to end the sentence before he stops himself, and then he winces, because he shouldn't have said that in the first place. Even the unspoken words seem to hang there between them, heavy. Sirius would blame himself for those twelve years, feeling guilty for going after Wormtail so recklessly, for abandoning Remus and his godson behind, for being imprisoned. They have avoided talking about the subject this long, and even though a part of Remus knows how unhealthy this is, he's pushing to see how far they can go without talking about… everything. 

He looks at him now, to see that Sirius' face is still determined and exasperated. He guesses that there's no avoiding this anymore. 

"But you don't  _ have to  _ do it by yourself _ , _ not anymore," Sirius steps closer, his voice taking on a desperate edge, "Can't you see how much easier it would be? Why are you so intent on suffering?" 

"I'm not," says Moony as he sneaks a glance over his friend's shoulder. He really doesn't want Molly and Arthur hearing this. "Severus was kind enough to provide me with--"

"Not that kind of suffering!"

Remus finally sets the dish he is holding down, and then fully turns to face Sirius. He doesn't say anything, just looks at him, urging him to continue. He has the urge to put up a silencing charm, but fears that it would alarm others. He stares at Sirius and silently begs him not to make a full-blown argument out of this. 

"Just…" Sirius starts, finally faltering under Remus's eyes. "Going through everything  _ alone  _ just like before is... You've had to do it for the last twelve years as you did  _ before.  _ Before us. James, and… I and I  _ know _ that it's my fault, so please, let me help." 

The words hang between them, awkward and filled with tension. Remus, knowing that he is being petty, fists his hands, and lets himself wallow into Sirius’s good intended, albeit poorly worded speech. "Oh, so you're doing it out of guilt?" there is no heat behind his words. He's always cool and collected when he's mad. Especially when he's mad. 

Sirius instantly blows, his hands going up to claw at his hair in frustration. "No, ugh! You always do this! This, this-"

Remus cuts in. "What." 

Sirius growls. "This deflecting thing! It doesn't work on me anymore! I can see right through you, Moony."

Remus's eyes narrow, the water is still running behind them and by now he's sure that not only Molly and Arthur, but any other stray ears might be privy to this argument. Sirius is a loud person, Merlin forbid encountering him when he's pissed. 

"You just miss a playmate, " Remus says, accusingly, viciously, even though he doesn't mean it. Because he cannot. He just cannot think of spending a single second with his best friend as Padfoot. Not anymore. The wolf craved a friend, the dog, for years, month after month, even though Remus patiently told himself ' he's gone, stop this, he's gone, and you know it ' 

Still, the wolf persisted, every single month, and was disappointed time after time, every single month. Remus is  _ tired.  _

"I don't miss a playmate. I miss my best friend." Sirius’s voice is still louder than usual, and Remus inwardly cringes. He hates causing a scene. 

"I've talked with Albus, and we both reached the same conclusion" He's proud of the lack of wavering in his voice. "I cannot spend the full moon in the headquarters. It's too dangerous." 

"Then how come when I talked with Albus he said-"

"Because you're a spoiled brat" Remus hates himself for saying these words. "And that's how you shoot down a brat, Sirius. You give them what they want until someone can deal with them," he takes a deep shuddering breath. "I'm that someone. "

"You're doing it again!"

"And it's working! " Remus finally yells back, well… it's his equivalent of a yell anyway. It sounds more like a rumble to him. More like the wolf letting off some steam. He hates it when he's aggressive. He hates it when Sirius forces his hand like this. 

"Why don't you just admit that you fucking blame me?! Just do it so we can get this over with and I can have you back again! Then you can stop being an idiot!"

Remus freezes for a moment, "Sirius," he sighs, his irritation ebbing away in a single instant, giving way to weary exhaustion, "It wasn't," he mutters quietly. He cannot do this, carry on and let Sirius think that's the reason for this. 

"Alright?" he gulps. "It wasn't all your fault." this conversation was way overdue. Remus knows that. "You shouldn't blame yourself. James was our best friend, we were both devastated."

Beyond devastated. Remus's life wasn't anything resembling a life at all after… the incident. It still isn't. 

"You weren't the one who went barging in yelling bloody murder, and then accused of a massacre," Sirius' voice sounds so glum, that Remus pulls off his gloves and steps even closer to him, he doesn't process his actions until he steps too close and takes Sirius' hands in his own and murmurs softly, "It was just righteous anger. Everyone felt it, but you more than anyone. And you acted upon it, it's not your fault that it went wrong." 

"And it ruined your life. And Harry's." Sirius tightens his grip on Remus' hand. They're both still mad, maybe not at each other anymore, but still mad nonetheless. 

"Harry is still probably safer with his muggle relatives," Remus hates telling Sirius the bitter truth that he has a hard time believing himself. "The blood wards are a lot stronger than anything we could have provided." 

"He shouldn't have  _ needed _ those wards, if I'd just not insisted that Wormtail be made secret keeper, he wouldn't have," something breaks in Padfoot’s voice, and the ache in Remus’ bones become heavier. "James would have been here. He and Lily would have fixed this."

"Padfoot," Remus breathes out, voice low and painful, "No one,  _ no one _ knew about Wormtail being a death eater. Not even James could have fixed that. Some things are just up to fate… like Wormtail… And the… the prophecy too. Some things are just meant to happen."

Remus sees the way Sirius grits his teeth, sees how the emotion in his eyes shifts from grief to anger, "A  _ prophecy, _ " he spits, "About an  _ infant,  _ spewed out by a drunk fraud! It doomed him from the moment he was born and it isn't even certain that he would succeed in what he's been 'destined' to do. Lily and James's boy… Remus, he's just a boy."

"That's how prophecies work, possibilities instead of absolutes," Remus murmurs, even though he shares Sirius' anger. "He's strong, Sirius. Stronger than you give him credit for."

"I know," Sirius sighs. "But I look at him, and all I see is the baby I held in my arms for fifteen months, the one I babysat with you, the one that James and Lily adored beyond anything on this planet… that's the boy. And I keep asking myself, why him? It could have been  _ anyone else's  _ child, why Jamie's?"

"We don't get to decide our fate, Padfoot. There's nothing we can do but help him," and then, against his better judgment, he wraps his arms around Sirius, folding him into his embrace. Sirius feels so  _ small _ in his arms, even though he's the taller one. It's times like these that Remus is reminded again and again of just what exactly Sirius went through in Azkaban, twelve years with those horrifying creatures, only the thought of vengeance keeping him alive. 

"We'll get through this," he promises Sirius, as well as himself. "We'll get him out of this alive. We owe it to James and Lily, and to Harry."

"I'm speaking with Dumbledore again," Sirius says as they finally pull away from each other. "There's no way you're spending the full moon alone,  _ ever _ again."

This time, Remus doesn't argue.

##

Rosier is amazed at how their sheer plebeian, tedious normality hasn't wiped the muggles out as of yet, as a whole species, he wonders at their existence the same way he wonders at an ant scrambling under his boot, unaware of how close the danger lurks, the omen of death, and the judicial strand of fate that belongs under a simple foot. 

He marvels at how small and insignificant they are, living their lives in identical houses, driving their little vehicles, going about their way… unaware, and small.. And all around pathetic, really. 

This doesn't mean that he thinks all wizards are superior to these squirming creatures, there are bound to be a few vermin amongst their sort as well, Dolohov himself being one, as he squealed like a little pig before his Lord's wand, quivering and hollering on the floor, begging for mercy, begging for redemption after his own  _ incompetence _ landed him by The Dark Lord's feet. 

Rosier hates those kinds with passion. The pathetic, common scum who have been wrongly blessed with magic. The blood traitors, the mudbloods. It revolts him, and he's sure that his Lord shares this particular brand of disgust as well. Weakness, in the face of offered power, is insolence. And people like Dolohov are worse than muggles for misusing magic in such an undermining way.

He heaves another hefty sigh, ignoring the slight cramping in his back and the numbing sensation that's slowly expanding up his legs, he has been standing on the same spot for hours now, he's not aware of how many to be exact, and he doesn't need to, his job doesn't require him to be aware of time or his own bodily complaints, his mission requires firm dedication and a pair of keen eyes. And Rosier is blessed with both. 

The muggle woman, the particular one he's been assigned to, is an absolute, cosmic nightmare, Evan isn't even sure that such a woman could really exist in any realms of reality, and yet, here he is, watching her furiously wipe her windowpane with a rag and an insufferable look on her face. So many disgusting features and bits of personality… all sewn together to make that waste of breath. To what end?

He'd almost rather be watching Dolohov tortured again. 

_ 'I'm sorry, my Lord! Sorry! Mercy… I beg you to have mercy!' he begged as if he deserved an ounce of it. _

_ 'You dare ask for mercy from me?' The Dark Lord’s voice was cold, all hard edges and cruelty, displaying his displeasure in such a way that not even Dolohov could have mistaken it for anything else. _

_ 'No! No! I am nothing but your faithful servant!'  _

_ 'Silence! Crucio!' A part of Rosier felt satisfaction at seeing him put in his right place.  _

_ 'M-my Lord.' Dolohov was sobbing and sniveling on the ground, and Rosier felt his mouth twist in disgust. _

_ 'I gave you one job to do Dolohov," the Dark Lord drawled. "And you failed me. What use are you to me, when I can't even trust you to do a single task?’ _

_ ‘Information!' Dolohov hollered. 'I have information, my Lord! Shacklebolt was tailing the boy! I've said so before! He was after Potter, he snatched the boy right before the Dementor could finish the job!' _

_ 'Rosier.' _

_ 'My Lord,' Rosier’s face was blank behind his mask. _

_ 'What is he babbling about?'  _

_ 'It seems as though the order of the phoenix is cherry-picking high ranking Aurors, my Lord. Shacklebolt being one of their newest members. They seem to be guarding the brat at all times,' like a rat-infested hole, protecting their young, Dumbledore’s pawns seemed to be all over the place. _

_ 'And you weren't made aware of this before?' Rosier admitted that the way the Dark Lord was running his fingers over his wand, sounding as calm as ever, sent a shiver of dread through him. _

_ 'The mole claims ignorance,' Evan forces himself to remain calm, discipline was his salvation. 'My Lord, he says he wasn't aware that Potter was under surveillance.'  _

_ His master's eyes narrowed. 'And have you made him aware of my displeasure, Evan?' his voice was so low, it almost resembled a malicious hiss. _

_ ' Of course, my Lord.' he had tortured the little bastard himself. 'He has learned his lesson. Such shortcomings won't occur again,'  _

_ ' Good.' another stroke upon the scaley wand, 'Get this pathetic creature out of my sight.' Voldemort snapped at a masked death eater, sneering down at Dolohov's sobbing form. The remaining death eaters all sprang into a frenzy, three peeled off Dolohov off the marble floors, Malfoy and Snape outright left after a bow, which left only him and Bella by his Lord's side. 'Rosier, stay.' _

_ 'My Lord,' Bella was the only one daring to protest.  _

_ Voldemort's eyes flashed in warning. 'Bella, leave us,' he said, his eyes narrowed until Bella dipped into a curtsey and then turned to leave. After the double doors clicked close, Voldemort nudged his head at Rosier, calling him to kneel before him.  _

_ 'I saw some interesting bit of information in Dolohov's mind, Rosier.' he started, once Evan looked up. _

_ 'May I inquire-'  _

_ 'You may not,' Voldemort impatiently cut him off. 'but circumstances have slightly changed. I have a mission, just for you, Evan,' _

_ 'I would be honored, my Lord,' _

_ ' You shouldn't be,' his Lord hissed, unimpressed. 'it's your own brand of punishment. However, you should be aware that failure would cost you greatly,' Rosier smirked. As if he could ever fail. _

_ 'Of course, my Lord.'  _

_ ' I will not let you slither past such failure again, Dolohov's blunder was as much your responsibility as his.' _

_ Rosier’s lips curled down on their own accord. 'Yes, my Lord, I am humbled by your mercy. '  _

_ 'You should be.'  _

The mission had been the perfect punishment, and now Rosier knows why. It's the tedium, the utter boredom, and revulsion that's repelling him. Standing rooted in one spot for hours to no end, with no action, no spells, and no dueling. Just standing, and observing, meticulously but in a way that makes Evan impervious to gouging out his eyeballs to boil them in molten pools of silver. 

Even so, he takes note of every little tick, every small nudge. He is a capable man, he knows how to exert himself well in order to succeed. He has to in order to survive. 

So he watches, and he learns every single day. 

Finally, after what feels like another eternity, and a sluggish blur of days passing him by, the moment finally, blessedly arrives, a month after his mission had begun. Finally. 

A red vehicle pulls up to the porch and the obese pompous man gets off with difficulty, reminding Evan of a flobberworm squirming on a leaf, weak, pathetic and squishy. The man hurries into the house, only to emerge with the whale boy and the disgusting woman on his trail, the three of them mounted on the vehicle in giddy haste. 

After a while of following and knowing all he needs to, Evan touches his mark with a relieved sigh and apparates to his Lord, falling to his knees before his master with a tilted head. 

"It's time, My Lord," he almost croons, in his own excitement. "It's time."

The Dark Lord's mouth curls into a merciless smirk.


	7. Story of Survival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings for; explicit language, blood, mild violence 
> 
> *The tags have been updated, so please check over the tags again. 
> 
> And at long last! The wait is over. Happy reading! 
> 
> Next update Saturday, 23th of May.

_ “This is a story of survival. _

_ It is your story, _

_ even when you feel like that word _

_ does not belong to you.” _

_ ― Ashe Vernon (Wrong Side of a Fistfight) _

...

As soon as Harry is out of Umbridge’s office, for the fourth time this week alone, his left hand goes to clutch at the other, and he doubles down as he leans against the stone walls, a fair distance away from the woman's office. Ignoring the burning behind his eyes, Harry hisses. He couldn’t have shown weakness in front of that toad, but the cuts  _ hurt. _ And today, unlike his other three detentions, the cuts weren’t closing as quickly as before. She had kept him with her almost till curfew today, and his hand throbbed. 

It's his fourth detention of the week, and the school had only just started, too. Umbridge seems to represent everything that was wrong with the Ministry. Or the world as a whole. Harry never thought he'd see someone worse than Aunt Petunia, apparently, he's wrong. And there are worse people, way worse. 

Harry prefers Aunt Petunia's shrieking over this disgusting… bloated pink toad any day. 

In his game, she actually is a giant toad, with a pink tiara on her head and a cat pin stitched to her tight pink vest, hopping around on her fat useless legs and shrieking nonsense. Nonsense that no one takes seriously, that is. 

In his game, serving detentions with this bitch doesn't consist of him cutting his hand open in a twisted parody of self-harm and reverse torture… he doesn't serve any detentions with this person, to begin with. 

Harry uses his robe sleeve to furiously wipe at his hand, the blood dripping down his fingers, and hisses in pain again. 

He isn't sure if these kinds of punishments are even  _ legal,  _ but she's from the Ministry, isn't she? She's obligated to follow the law, at least that's what Harry thinks. She would probably give him something worse to do if he complains, not that he is going to, of course. 

As he walks towards his dorm, he has to keep from staggering, exhaustion and blood loss are making him dizzy. He hadn’t slept well last night either. There are very few nights that he does, even at Hogwarts. Harry thinks that Ron is probably suspecting something too, but being able to use the silencing spells is what saves Harry in the end. He doesn’t want his friends to worry, not even Seamus. Who is still being an insufferable git, and refuses to even look at Harry anymore. 

Seamus doesn't believe him. Harry can't wrap his head around that. 

A lot of people refuse to believe him, even though the truth is so obvious it's hitting them upside the head, it couldn’t have been more obvious if it burst in, dancing in front of them with coconut bras and a lulu skirt. The Death Eaters escaping? Cedric’s death? 

They probably think Harry killed Cedric himself and then also recruited the Death Eaters, and also attacked a bunch of Muggle-borns, and then probably kicked a few puppies too, just for good measure. At least… that's what they could be assuming, given the way they glare at Harry. 

Harry doesn't know what else he should do in order to prove his innocence, and he's quite sure that he has done all that he could in a span of a week. The only thing left for him to do is either wear a shirt that proclaims "I don't kick puppies!" or speak under the influence of Veritaserum so he could prove to them that he's not the one who killed Cedric Diggory. 

Well, not in the real sense anyway. He's still fully responsible for the other boy's death, even though he didn't carry out the Death sentence himself. 

Gritting his teeth, Harry reaches back into his bag and pulls out the Invisibility cloak, he would rather go unnoticed and reach his dorm in peace than be ogled on by others, some pressing him about the events in the graveyard, some just accusing him of being a liar, others just mad about the imaginary puppies. 

Harry instantly feels better once he's under the cloak, even though the burning in his hand doesn't abate at all, it feels like taking a break from the world. A break he sorely needs. Besides, he's not in a mood to explain his bleeding hand to Ron and Hermione. They'll worry. 

Just to clear his mind, Harry takes a detour and the longer route for the tower. He probably won’t reach the tower before curfew, but that’s what the cloak is for, isn't it? 

_ ' I must not tell lies,' _ those are the words etched on the back of his left hand. They cause his blood to boil with indignation. Harry isn't a liar. He is many things, good or bad, mostly weak, but he's not a liar. What he said to Umbridge during her first class was nothing more than the truth. 

Harry doesn't know in what world, one is supposed to be punished for telling the truth other than this one. He wasn't looking for sympathy, he wasn't throwing a pity party… he was just telling the truth. 

_ ' I must not tell lies'  _ is apparently the price of truth. Harry isn't sure how long he can carry on before he gives in, even though he knows that he shouldn't. It's only been a week since the start of the term, and this was his fourth detention and Harry cannot bear to think of the following one this Friday night.

Had everything gone right in Harry's life, he would be playing chess with Ron in the common room, and chugging butterbeer with the other boys… not wandering the halls, hungry, frustrated, and bleeding.

Somewhere along the way, Harry realises that instead of heading for his common room, he had headed for the wrong floor, the second floor to be exact. Just a little bit ahead of him is the girl’s bathroom, and Harry promptly decides that there's no harm in dropping in to check on the Moaning Myrtle before he heads back. No one comes to visit her, after all. And he knows what it feels like to be lonely, also, he might be able to get his hand to stop bleeding if he holds it underwater long enough. 

He enters the desolate bathroom, about to call out when he hears a noise. A sob. Now, that in itself won’t be surprising, she is, after all, called  _ Moaning  _ Myrtle. But the sob was distinctively not Myrtle. He pauses, tense under his cloak, listening for it again. But it’s quiet. He pulls his cloak tighter around himself, and takes a step forward, into the bathroom. 

Then he hears it again, not a sob, but a sniffle, as if someone is trying hard to stop crying. Harry would know, he had had to stifle enough sobs with the Dursleys when he was smaller. And that’s when he notices him, standing in front of a sink, bent over with the water running.

Malfoy. 

His first instinct is to go for his wand, but he suppresses it. Malfoy doesn’t know he is here yet, and from the looks of it, it doesn’t seem like he is about to attack anyone anytime soon. This seems like a huge violation of privacy, but Harry doesn't seem to be able to make himself leave. 

He watches Malfoy in morbid fascination, noting the boy's disheveled hair and pale face as he gazes into the large mirror reflecting the boy's withdrawn figure.

Unwittingly, and as quietly as he can manage, Harry steps closer and gets a good look at Maloy’s face. Then he'll leave, Harry thinks to himself. Just a quick peek. 

Because clearly, this isn't the same boy Harry saw during lunch that very day in the Great Hall. Harry isn't sure how the dramatic alteration came to be, but he's curious as to what had made Malfoy look the way he is. 

The Slytherin’s face is gaunt, and his eyes rimmed red. The bags under them are even more pronounced than Harry’s own, and that’s saying something. His hands are trembling, Harry notices. Shaking hard, even as he grips the sides of the sink in a white-knuckled hold. Harry’s mouth suddenly feels dry. 

Malfoy hadn’t looked that bad in classes. Or the Great Hall. Ron had said he looked awful on the train, and he did look… not quite right at the feast either, but he'd been normal, if not a bit quiet.

How could he deteriorate this much in a matter of hours from when he had seen him during Potions and then lunch?

Glamours, probably. 

He gets within touching distance of Malfoy, almost mesmerised. Those grey eyes have a haunted look in them. It reminds Harry too much of the Malfoy of his dream, the one thrashing in his bounds, desperate and vulnerable. Malfoy has clearly lost weight too, and the already sharp angles of his face look cutting in the dim light of the bathroom.

Harry isn't sure what drives him to do what he does next, but it's a compelling force that cuts right through his logic, he reaches out to Malfoy's back with his bleeding hand, his fingers just an inch away from the other boy's heaving back. 

All of a sudden, Malfoy tenses up and whirls around, whipping out his wand, “Who’s there?” he says. With his drawn face and the tear streaks down his cheeks, not to mention his still shaking hand, wracking the wand in his hold, he doesn’t paint a very threatening picture. 

Harry had stumbled back, loudly, when Malfoy had taken out his wand, with his back painfully slamming into the clanky sinks. Harry stifles a hiss of pain and slowly breaths through gritted teeth. He needs to get out of here. Fast. 

"Who's there?" Malfoy repeats again. Hysteria edges his tone. 

Harry slowly starts backing away from the other boy, his eyes wide and his face pale. 

Malfoy is looking right at him. Well. Not at him, Harry knows that's impossible. But he is standing right into the boy's line of vision, and can do nothing more than flinch when Draco lashes out with a "Revelio!" 

Harry wants to duck but then is reminded once again, that such spells wouldn't work on the cloak. He's safe as long as he has a tight grip on the cloth. 

"Son of a- Revelio! Revelio!" Malfoy is blasting the curse at the walls, at the air that surrounds him as Harry starts tiptoeing back towards the doors. 

Suddenly as if slapped, Draco points his wand to the double doors and shouts a locking curse, trapping Harry in the bathroom with him. 

"I know someone is here," Malfoy says, a deep frown on his face, then suddenly something in his eyes flash. "Pansy?" he mutters, his wand wavering in his hold. 

Harry pauses, bewildered.  _ Pansy? _

There is no way he would have been able to sneak out. If he takes out his wand to unlock the doors Malfoy would be on him before he makes it out, if he simply stays, who knows how long it'll take for Ron and Hermione to get worried and look him up on the map… chilling with Draco Malfoy in an abandoned bathroom. 

His dream had been clawing at his mind ever since finding out Bellatrix was out of Azkaban and it rears its ugly head once again, the longer he stares back at Malfoy's face. Twisted in agony then, and deeply etched with a frown now. It's the most expressive Harry has ever seen the boy. 

"Pansy, I swear to Merlin, if it is you, I'm going to curse your bloody panties!" Malfoy spits out, running his free hand through his disheveled hair. Harry stifles a snort and then winces. That's not an image he really wants swirling in his head at the moment, or ever if he can help it. 

"I know you get a kick out of this, but following me into the bathroom is a tad too far," Malfoy sneers this time, much more composed and put together, but still looking like he's been saved out of a snake pit. 

"Pansy, oh for the love of-"

Harry, with the same impulse that has gripped him moments ago, slowly lowers the Invisibility cloak before Draco can take another jab at a clearly absent Pansy Parkinson. Harry gulps, wondering if he is just making a huge mistake. He watches as Malfoy's eyes widen dramatically and his mouth goes slack as if he cannot believe what he's seeing. 

Well, Harry wouldn't have either, to be honest. But it's not like his choices were too adverse, to begin with. It was either revealing himself to Malfoy or waiting him out, and Harry's hand hurts too much to put up with unnecessary bullshit. He'd take a jab at Malfoy, throw a few curses if necessary, and then bail. 

Harry realizes with a flush that Malfoy probably isn't seeing anything beyond Harry's head floating in thin air, and that might be the reason why he looks so shocked instead of angered, and so with a resigned sigh, he drops the cloak all the way, letting it pool in a tangle around his feet. 

"Malfoy," That's the only thing he can think of saying, he crams his hands into his pocket robes, one of them tightly clutching his wand. He cannot be too lax around a boy that would not hesitate to curse him into oblivion. 

Malfoy just looks at him. 

##

Draco is having an  _ awful  _ day. 

From the moment he opens his eyes in the morning, his body tense with the remnants of another nightmare and his mind screeching for a respite to the moment Potter literally appears out of thin air, he's having an awful time. This morning, He gets out of bed cursing every deity to the depths of hell, ignoring a sleepy Blaise brushing his teeth with perfect precision, Draco walks right under the shower and finishes up, fixes the glamour in place automatically, his posture tensed and straight, just like before.

That's Draco's life now. There's a 'Before' and there is the 'After'. And Draco is hating the After more than he has ever hated anything. 

He doesn't eat at breakfast the way he wants to, of course, it would look odd for him not to eat anything at all, so Draco bites into the sausage wishing he could spit it out, and munches on a toast that tasted like ground sawdust coated with peanut butter… which wasn't an improvement. 

He smirks and jeers at the younger children, intimidating those who haven't yet learned to be intimidated, but his heart is not into it, he doesn't have the patience nor the vigor to be himself or make the effort to antagonise others. These days, all he wants to do is mostly sleep. Proper sleep. Not what he does now. 

Blaise pushes him to study… or at least, he does it the way a Slytherin forces anyone to do anything, he picks up after Draco's mess and engages him in mundane one-way conversations so Draco won't have to put up with someone else, or mostly Pansy eyeing him. He seems to have figured out that something is off about Pansy, but neither she nor Draco is telling him anything, so he is sticking to not letting Draco sink lower than he already has. 

Pansy makes for a comically lousy spy, as far as Draco is concerned. Not a pinch of subtlety, not a grain of grace, and Draco, even in his haze of grief and monotony, is mildly amused by the girl's fruitless efforts. Such an amateur, Draco thinks to himself at least once a day before he remembers that same amateur 'Agent' is assigned to  _ him.  _

The classes are tedious. Not only are they exceedingly boring and mind-numbing, they're overwhelming as well, he knew that his O.W.L year wouldn't pass in a simple breeze, but honestly… The workload they already had been assigned in the first week was ridiculous. 

Although Draco bets, Granger would be having a heart attack at the sight of her homework pile, and Draco himself, despite being frustrated beyond measure by this situation, is somewhat glad that the workload is big enough to hinder his thinking and occupy it with useless academics.

If he's busy doing homework, he doesn't have to worry about… 'Before'. He's in the After now, he cannot afford to think about before in the first place. So homework helps. Classes don't. 

He despises two in particular. One used to be his favourite. But from the first second Draco walks into the Potions classroom he knows that things won't be the same, and he cannot even bring himself to look at Snape as he dramatically barges into his classroom and starts lecturing off the bat. 

Severus tries making eye contact only twice, and gives up after Draco evades him both times, carries on with his lesson and the usual platter of insults thrown at the Gryffindors, today Longbottom, in particular, seems to be getting the brunt of Snape's rage, and Potter is… Potter. 

Draco doesn't listen to the lecture, and he lets Blaise do most of the work and sticks to preparing the ingredients, cutting up leeks and crushing Newt's eyes and beetle wings, it's familiar, he doesn't even have to think about the process and Snape doesn't dare snap at them either. 

He gives Draco an O even though Blaise's Potion is barely adequate enough to pass Potter's standards, he asks Draco to stay after class, Draco doesn't. He heads to dinner with Blaise and then lets the other boy drag him to the library to complete their homework so as to 'not get overwhelmed later.'

"It's simple logic, Draco," Blaise tells him once they're in the library the very first day, Pansy poorly shuffles, hidden behind a few shelves over. Both boys are aware of her presence but skillfully pretend otherwise. 

"If we want to succeed, we need to stay ahead," Draco swears that the other boy is turning into Granger, minus the bushy hair and her irritating front teeth. He doesn't mention this to Blaise and resigns himself to finishing his workload for the day. 

One day at the time. That's how 'After' works. 

A week later, things have barely improved. Umbridge's defense class, the other class that he hates is an absolute nightmare, the woman is a pink menace, and Draco wants nothing more than to march to the front desk and throttle her fat neck with his bare hands. But he refrains himself because he values his life. 

Potter clearly doesn't. 

Umbridge gives him detention in the very first class for the rest of the week. Then throws him out of the class and Potter goes, stomping off with a note clutched in his hands. Draco turns back to his so-called textbook and resumes reading. 

Everything is a joke. And the worst thing about it is that it's not funny in the slightest. 

Lunch tastes the same as breakfast and dinner last night, and Draco eats, all the same, feeling his guts churn and bile rise in his throat every time he swallows a spoonful, which he quickly drowns with pumpkin juice, which also promptly tastes like cough syrup, or those irritating flu Potions Severus forced down his throat when he was sick as a child. 

Snape tries talking to him again in double Potions, Draco ignores him, Weasley blows up his cauldron and gets detention, and Draco barely participates in making his with Blaise. Snape gives him an E anyway but doesn't ask him to stay after class. 

Instead of the library, this time Blaise takes him to the Great Hall.

"There are snacks there for the study groups," he babbles as he drags Draco by his elbow, "And I'm waiting for Cedar to bring me a letter." 

Cedar is Blaise's tawny owl, and hates Draco with a deep burning passion that Draco fully returns, the damn thing always nipped his fingers whilst delivering things for Blaise on Draco's behalf or scratched him with his claws, or damaged him one way or the other. Draco nearly stopped all contact with the other boy because of the same reason. That blasted owl. 

At least his hatred for Cedar is the same. 

Blaise catches the nasty wince on his face and snorts, rolling his eyes as he drops his bag down on their table. The hall is mostly empty, with the exception of Granger and Weasley with a couple of other Gryffindors tucked at the end of their table and two Ravenclaws huddling together at theirs… and of course, Pansy, who happens to arrive a minute after they do, hanging off Daphne's arm. 

"If I didn't know any better, Pansy, I would say you have the hots for me," Blaise drawls to a flushing Pansy and then promptly receives a subtle kick from Draco under the table. 

"If I didn't know any better, Zabini, I would assume we live in the same castle." Pansy snaps after a beat, her cheeks still blotched with two bright red spots. 

Blaise easily shrugs and flips his book open. "True," he says, and that's it. Draco opens his own transfiguration textbook and just stares at it. There's not much else he can do. 

When Cedar arrives, it drops down on Draco's book, flapping his wings and glaring at Draco with the same ferocity he stares at him. 

"Blasted creature," he grits out, and Cedar hoots, wildly shifting and clawing at Draco's book. Draco glares at Blaise and the boy shrugs. 

"He doesn't know any better, Draco," he says with a smirk and reaches for the package tied to Cedar's claw. "He's just an owl." 

"He's a demon. And he hates me," he sounds as if he's whining, and for a single moment, Draco almost feels as if he's back to normal. Almost.

"Well, to be fair, most people do. You're not the easiest person to be around, Draco." 

"Cedar is a bird." Draco feels ridiculous for pointing that out, snapping his book close with a snarl. Cedar hoots at him again, angrily waddling away to Blaise. 

"So was Hagrid's beast." The dark-skinned boy replies. "So was your own owl before you got rid of him."

"Whatever, Zabini," says Draco with a flippant wave of his wand. He reaches for the bowl of crisps nearby and takes a few on impulse. 

Blaise tears into his package with an expectant grin, his eyes narrowing in amusement as he quickly scans the letter and then runs a hand over the green scarf that came with the package. 

"Honestly, all this nagging," Blaise finally says and drops his letter on the table, reaching out to cram his scarf in his study bag. 

"Who is it?" Draco asks with mild curiosity and reaches for the letter, the crisps still in his other hand. 

"Oh, no one important," Blaise waves him off. "Just mother, nagging as usual. I wrote her about that scarf I forgot, and she's written a whole volume on responsibility and Slytherin mindfulness… honestly. Mothers." He rolls his eyes the same instant something sinks in Draco's stomach. 

His other hand fists around the crisps, turning them into powdered mush as he stares at the letter in his hand, the looped handwriting, and the admonishing words. Affectionate. Motherly. 

The same way Draco's mother scolded him. The same way she will never do again. 

The letter falls from his hand, and Draco stands abruptly in his place, drawing startled glances from Blaise and Pansy. The crisps flecks in his hand irritate his skin as Draco steps out of the benches. 

"What the hell, Draco?" Blaise asks him with mild surprise. Draco masks his face into an impervious frown. 

"I have a thing," he says and turns away. 

Blaise looks confused. "You have a thing?" he slowly repeats after Draco and he barely hears him over the pounding of his heart against his ribcage. 

"Yeah, I just remembered," he distractedly waves Blaise off and briskly starts walking out of the Great Hall, not giving his friend a chance to retaliate. 

He ignores his surroundings as he walks out of the hall, all he can hear is the sound of his own, barely controlled breathing and he ignores that too, he ignores everything, even the image of his mother, pasted to the front of his mind, burned into his flesh. 

He needs to get out of view, somewhere he can just _be._ Be the Draco of _After_ without having to pretend, just for a little while, only an hour. He needs to breathe, take a break from himself, and the glamoured face that doesn't belong to him anymore, which belongs to the _Before._

Almost on instinct, Draco heads for the second floor, knowing that the east wing is mostly abandoned in the area, and time of the day. There's a heaviness in his chest, and Blaise's mom's handwriting is all over his consciousness, so similar to his own mother's elegant scribble, so defined, and firm… confident. 

Draco walks into the vacant bathroom, opens the tap and just collapses upon the porcelain sink, hanging onto the cool surface as if it's the only thing holding him up because it is. He whips his wand out of his robes, slams the doors shut, but doesn't lock them, and just… lets himself go.

He didn't cry at that joke of a funeral, he didn't cry when his father left him twitching and aching in his bed, alone for hours, he didn't cry in the whole month he was confined to his own wing in the Manor, trapped with nothing to think about but his mother. He didn't let himself cry. It wasn't the matter of pride, it was something deeper… almost feral. An urge that stifled his sobs and dried the tears before they even had the chance to creep upon him. 

Draco was a Malfoy. And Malfoys were composed, Malfoys had grace, his mother always told him that.  _ 'You're a Malfoy, Draco. You are unique, and you should act as such. My unique little dragon'  _

From his father's point of view, that meant learning the art of manipulation, politics, and the slimy trail of history that his name has left in the wizarding world. It meant lying like he breathed, acting as if he was a statue. It meant knowing his place, above others, poised on a crystal throne. Above all else. 

Except that wasn't true, though, was it? His father wasn't on a throne, he was down on his knees, with his nose touching the ground as he bowed to another man, like all other mere mortals. He was tortured the same, degraded the same, spat at the same. His wife was treated the same. 

Draco almost retches as he thinks about it again. He cannot help it, he cannot help crying anymore. Tears start falling down, and Draco vaguely realizes that this is the first time he has really cried in years… he cannot even remember the last time he ever cried over something or wanted for something. It's been so long that it takes Draco a moment to realize that crying actually takes a lot of effort. 

He lets out the huge scream purged under his throat in small wretched sobs, and it's not enough, not in the slightest, but there's  _ nothing else  _ for Draco to do but cry. 

Blaise's mother wrote to him, sent him a scarf, scolded him in a letter, and it wasn't fair because Draco's mother would never do the same for him again, and that wasn't fair, not when Blaise didn't even appreciate his mother's dedication the right way. Why cannot Draco have that now that he knows how much he'll miss it? 

What was wrong with him, what made the world decide that he didn't need a mother anymore? 

The thought sends him down another spiral, deep and twisted and seemingly endless, and Draco sobs like a child in the face of it, a small lost toddler who misses his mother… because he is lost, and he really misses his mother. 

If the roles were reversed, Draco's sure that Mother would feel the same way about him. They were always close, the two of them. 

As he cries, and the water runs, Draco abruptly notices the shift in the air, bold enough to jolt him out of his crying, and he tenses, his senses firing off warning bells in his head as he turns, expecting to find a culprit pointing a wand at him. 

It's not that irritating ghost, and there's no one behind him. But Draco is a Malfoy, and a Slytherin. His instincts are never wrong. It could be Pansy, catching him in his moment of weakness. 

Draco curses, threatens her a few times to no avail, he's only about to unlock the doors to leave himself when Potter's head appears before his eyes. Quite literally. Draco just stares, wondering whether he has gone mad or hallucinating, perhaps his lack of sleep is finally catching up with him, he blinks a few times and continues to stare until Potter flushes vermilion and drops the cloth assisting his Invisibility to stare back at him. 

"Malfoy," Potter says, his hands in his robes. 

Draco stares at him. There's still a thirty percent chance of him hallucinating the other boy, and in case it isn't, Draco really doesn't want to make a fool of himself. Although he's done that already, his archenemy already caught him bawling his eyes out a few minutes ago. 

There's the obvious choice, the first approach he would have made had he not been the Draco he is today. He could have cursed Potter, made it  _ hurt,  _ sting as much as the humiliation coursing through Draco's veins right now. And then deny, deny, and deny if Potter tattled on him. 

This Draco just stares at Potter, with his wand pointed to the ground, jaw slack. 

"Potter," he says after a beat. "Do you always make a habit of stalking people?" He is aware that his words come out hoarse, and his eyes are probably still red.

Potter's jaw flexes and one of his hands, the one curled around his wand comes out of his pocket. It's also pointed to the ground, but Draco sees the threat, loud and clear. 

"I don't stalk people," Potter grits out, his eyes narrowing behind his smudged glasses. Draco takes a moment to sigh to himself. He really doesn't want to deal with Potter right now. 

"It's just me, then," he snaps, rolling his eyes as he crosses his arms, his glamour crawls up in place with a subtle flick of his wand that he's sure Potter doesn't even notice. His mother was natural with non-verbal spells. "I didn't think you'd miss me that much," he keeps his voice dry, unimpressed. 

Potter makes a face at him. "Stop flattering yourself, Malfoy. It was an accident." 

"So, you accidentally stalked me." Draco loves mirroring other people. It's a nice trick he learned early on after getting sorted into Slytherin. Mirroring people is the equivalent of slamming a chair into someone's face, and it doesn’t even have any repercussions.

"Not that you're much to look at," Potter sneers and leans down to pick up the heap of invisible cloth. An Invisibility cloak, most likely. Draco has heard of those, but never seen one with his own eyes before… figures that Potter would have one. 

"I'm not the one with the disfigured face," Draco jeers back, flicking an eyebrow as he catches Potter's other hand dripping on the floor. Dark red against light marbles…  _ blood _ . 

"Yeah well, better disfigured than inherently ugly," Potter drawls himself, slightly shifting in his place to fold his cloak. Draco is still looking at Potter's hand, slightly inflamed, irritated and bleeding. It looks too deep to be a slight graze or Potter's usual bout of clumsiness. Draco has seen his fair share of those, he swears the boy is either too blind to be aided by glasses, or just loves walking into walls and tripping on shit. 

"I'm not sure whether you believe the myth regarding the blood of a virgin improving your love life… but it's a hoax, and you're bleeding in the wrong place." 

Potter rolls his own eyes, "Oh, shut up," he says, wiping his bloodied hand against his school robes. Draco sighs. That was disgusting. 

"Did you slam it into a quill?" he says, pouring a familiar dose of venom into his voice. 

"Not that it's any of your business, Malfoy, but I've got a lot better things to do than go around self-inflicting injuries." 

He's right. Draco could care less about Potter's clumsy ass slamming into things and damaging himself. In fact, he should be enraged, indignant, mad beyond reason that Potter had seen him, caught him crying, even if they were both pretending that part didn't happen.

He shrugs, slowly with an unimpressed curl of his lip. "You're right, Potter. Although, let me say, you're actually doing a splendid job of damaging yourself on my behalf. Feel free to bleed all over the-"  _ marble floors. _

He stops himself, breaths, and then forces his face to go blank. Devoid of any outward emotions. 

"Get out of my way," he snaps at Potter, finally uncrossing his arms to move. "I don't have time to deal with you and your stupidity." He whips his hand at the doors and they slam open, rattling in their hinges. Draco inwardly shudders at the sound but brushes past Potter with a glower fixed in place. 

"You're right," Potter jeers as Draco shoulders past him. "You have sniveling to do." his eyebrow quirks. "I won't stop you," 

Draco takes another deep breath, his wand coming to prod Potter between the shoulders in a painful jab. "If you ever…  _ ever  _ spy on me again," he hisses, his other hand holding Potter in place. "I'd curse you so hard, that you wouldn't be able to tell the difference between your ass and your face." 

He lets Potter go as if he's touching a rodent and wipes his hand on his own robe, in an unwanted parody of Potter's similar actions earlier. Potter whirls to face him, snarling. 

"Empty threats."  _ They are. _

Draco is already walking out of the doors. "Don't try me." 


	8. Cling to Hate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings for; explicit language, blood, vivid depictions of violence (not carried out), Umbridge.
> 
> *Due to our heavy schedules, and busy hours, the updates will be back to every alternate Saturday once more, terribly sorry for the wait. ;)
> 
> Next update Saturday: 7th of June

_“I imagine one of the reasons people cling to their hates so stubbornly is because they sense, once hate is gone, they will be forced to deal with pain.”_

_\- James Baldwin_

… 

Harry arrives with a tiny piece of apple still lodged in his mouth, the only evidence left of the apple he had picked up from the Great Hall before he headed for the detention, he's missed lunch and really couldn't even stomach the thought of facing the toad on an empty stomach. 

That's what he calls her in his head, the great pink toad, amongst other things of course, it's by far the politest, and funniest too, according to Ron and Hermione’s frugal sense of humor. 

He quickly swallows the piece without chewing and knocks, feeling his heart sink just as always when he's heading to these detentions, with the last one being last night. There's a shrill chirp that says "Come in," and Harry actually rolls his eyes before opening the door. 

"Mr. Potter," she nods as Harry stops before her desk, his hands carefully and steadily lax, dangling freely by his sides, even the right one that's still stinging.

"Professor Umbridge," Harry says, trying to repress every ounce of hatred and foulness he would have liked to pour into those words. In Umbridge's place, in Harry’s head, sat the great pink toad, in her too-tight pink cardigan and shrieking voice. The cat adorned plates covering every inch of the circular office doesn't aid her image much either. 

Harry, who usually has a decent connection with most animals, promptly finds himself hating cats, just because Umbridge seems to be _obsessed_ with them. 

"You're late," she says, her teaspoon annoyingly clinking against her china cup, Harry stitches his eyes to the clinking spoon and wishes it to combust in her hand, but then moves his gaze so as to not actually cause a debacle like that. He has a feeling that it won’t pass overlooked the same way as Aunt Marge’s incident had. 

"I'm really not," Harry is actually five minutes early because of the same shit Umbridge pulled yesterday. There's no way that he's late. Umbridge, as if waiting for him to say those exact words, gives him a Grinch-like smile and turns her golden desk clock for Harry to see, exactly five minutes past five.

Harry reads the clock and then looks at her, then the clock again before he gazes down at his own wristwatch. It shows five minutes _to five._

"My watch is saying--" 

"Well, then it must be wrong," Umbridge interrupts him sweetly, tapping the clock with mock disappointment on her face. 

Harry doesn't argue. He knows that there's no point. She'll just give him more detention, and Harry gets a nasty headache just thinking about it. 'Let's just get this over with,' he thinks and waits for Umbridge to let him sit. 

She doesn't, not until the fucking silver spoon is put away and she raises her steaming cup to take a small sip, not breaking eye-contact with Harry even once, not until the cup is back on her desk and her cats are throwing a fit on the walls. Harry contemplates if Azkaban is really that bad compared to this. 

"You may sit, Mr. Potter," Harry plops down in his seat, eyeing the black quill and the empty roll of parchment with slight dread. 

"What am I writing?" Harry asks but knows the answer anyway. 

"The same as before, until the lesson has _sunk,_ " she says and Harry takes the quill, his hand already throbbing in sympathy of what is about to come. The quill rolls between his fingers, and Harry has the sudden urge to think whether he can stab her with the quill. The image is violent and bloodied, but surprisingly neither deter his daydreaming. He wants to see her in pain. 

Harry keeps staring at it for a second before getting to work; it wouldn’t do to give Umbridge another excuse to assign more detentions. He writes the first word, _‘I’,_ and the scabbed over cuts on his hand split open. It’s with the sheer force of will that he keeps himself from hissing. 

He risks a glance up, to see her staring at him with a smile playing at her lips. It’s disturbing. 

Unlike Aunt Petunia, he doesn’t imagine her without a mouth, rather, he imagines her without her whole face, just a void where it should be starting from the top of her head, and ending just above her thick, meaty neck. Without those beady little eyes, tracking his every movement, or those lips that simper so disgustingly. 

Time passes. He keeps writing. Umbridge has gone back to some paperwork by now, so at least she isn’t staring at him. There is the steady scratch of his quill on the bloodied parchment, and the turning of Umbridge’s papers, along with the clock on her desk which is ticking at a steady rhythm. A few cats purr on the wall.

_Tick tock tick tock_.

He wants to pull out his wand and cast multiple _reductos_ around the room, anything to just shut the damn cats up, they might not be the sole reason for the pulsing in his temples, but they're not helping either. With a sigh, Harry wonders how long it will take for his cuts to close this time. 

If he breaks this quill, will she have another one for him? Is it worth the risk? _No,_ he thinks, definitely not worth it. 

_I must not tell lies._

He has written about fifty lines by now, and his hand is burning fiercely. His robe sleeve is also bloody. He briefly ponders wiping his hand on her hot pink table cloth, how many detentions would that result in? 

_I must not tell lies._

He is starting to feel slightly dizzy and nauseous. He eyes the clock. Twenty minutes past six. How long does she plan on keeping him? Will she make him miss dinner again? He wouldn’t put it past her, of course. At this point, he wouldn’t put _anything_ past her.

Another hour passes, and Harry’s hand is in red rivulets, and he's sure if it goes on, the blood would make a small stream in the classroom all the way to the gates. Last night wasn’t any different from the others, the O.W.L. classes are awfully drilling, especially when you have Hermione as your friend, and Harry is reaching the end of his ropes faster than he was expecting. 

The homework is already too much, and Harry has nearly spent three hours a day in Umbridge's office, which is an overwhelming disadvantage compared to the other students. Harry's pretty sure he's the only one who has had detentions with Umbridge. 

By seven thirty, Harry really cannot do this anymore. His other hand has reached a delicate point that goes past pain, into a very disconcerting numbing sensation that's slowly creeping up his wrist, beyond the small pool of blood. The parchment is nearly coming to its end and finally, _finally,_ Umbridge opens her useless gab. 

"That's about enough for now, Mr. Potter," she says, in a sweet saccharine voice that makes Harry ponder once again, the disadvantages of committing first-degree murder… well, for one, he won't be able to complete his studies in Azkaban… on the other hand, it means he won't have to see or hear this creature anymore, so really… are there any negative repercussions at all? 

"Let me see your hand, Mr. Potter," she continues as Harry slowly gets up to his feet, his hand knuckle-white around the quill and his other hand drowned in blood. He walks up to her with a hidden grimace.

_You're not a murderer, Harry,_ he tells himself, 'you don't have the guts, nor would it do you any good.'

' I don't know, Jamie Junior, ' the Sirius in his head starts, rather unhelpfully. ' I can see you pulling off the perfect crime. You won't even have to use your wand,' 

'Shut up, Sirius,' Harry snaps and holds his bleeding hand for inspection, trying not to hurl in disgust as her clammy hand clutches his and she hums. A carefully aimed _diffindo_ could probably sever her hand from her body, Harry muses. 

"Needs a bit more, I'd say," Umbridge isn't even looking at his scars, but rather intensely, sadistically staring into Harry's eyes. "Not for today," She drawls and lets go of his hand, reaching for her wand to clean Harry's blood off her fingers. 

'It'll be easy. You just gotta be careful about body disposal.' Imaginary Sirius hums, rubbing his chin. 'Cannot bury or burn her… maybe throw her off the Astronomy tower down in the mud pit. It has a great view too. Or dissolve her in one of Snape's Potions.' 

This Sirius is sounding more tempting as minutes go by, but Harry stifles him once again. 'Everyone would know I did it,' he thinks to imaginary Sirius as he holds the toad's gaze. 

'Not necessarily. Bitch like her… I'd say it'd be a miracle if she's _not_ murdered during the school year. Someone's gotta do it.' 

"Maybe Monday afternoon will suffice?" Umbridge says and Harry gulps, dropping his hand to his side, vaguely feeling the dark blood dripping down his fingers upon the stone floor. 

'Someone really should,' Sirius says and Harry gets out, his head throbbing nearly with the same ferocity as his hand. He cannot go back like this… bleeding and miserable, looking more like the Bloody Baron than himself.

He has to steady himself against the wall as he starts walking, and his hand actually does leave a bloody trail of crimson droplets on the stone floors as he walks. Gritting his teeth, he clenches it into a fist, wrapping his scarf around it. At least with magic, he’d be able to get out the bloodstains. He takes care of his macabre trail as well.

He can’t go back to Gryffindor Tower like this, so he takes to walking around aimlessly. He is hungry, his grumbling stomach acutely reminds him of his summers with Dursleys and Harry groans. The food would have been long gone from the Great Hall, he only hopes that Ron had saved him some sandwiches or rolls like last night.

He can go to Myrtle’s bathroom again, there’s very little chance that Malfoy would be there today. And he never got to say hi to her. He frowns, he hadn’t seen her there yesterday. And he needs to do something about the bleeding too.

Going under his Invisibility Cloak again, he makes his way to the bathroom, letting muscle memory carry him as he loses himself in his thoughts. 

The bathroom is quiet as he enters, he looks around for a minute, almost waiting for Malfoy to jump out at him. But there is no one here. He removes his Cloak all the way and quietly calls out, “Myrtle?”

Immediately, he hears a voice respond, “Harry?” 

“Hey Myrtle,” he says as he makes his way over to a basin, turning on the water and peeling the scarf off his hand. He winces as it sticks to the cuts. Some of it has begun to dry already, and the cuts burn as Harry peels the cloth all the way.

“What are you doing here?” she comes swooping out of one of the stalls, hovering over his head. Harry wonders how offended she’d be if he stuck his hand through her, but the ice-cold would feel so good against his aching hand.

He shakes his head as if to dislodge the thought, and turns on the tap, letting the cool water run over his hand. “Just wanted to say hi.” He refuses to look up at the mirror and see his reflection, which could no doubt give Malfoy a run for his money.

“Really?” Her voice is a mix of suspicion, delight, and astonishment, and Harry feels slightly guilty.

“Yeah,” he mutters, then asks, a little awkwardly, “How’re you?”

Myrtle, instead of replying, flies from his right to his left, leaning in closer to the basin. “What happened to you?” 

“Detentions.” 

She makes a face, “That looks really painful.” 

Finally closing the tap, Harry rummages around his backpack and comes up with a broken half of a quill, “It is,” he says, before quickly transfiguring the quill into a small piece of handkerchief. 

Then he hears the door creaking open, and freezes. Somehow, even Myrtle remains quiet, looking at the opening door. 

Malfoy. _Again._

Harry doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve this. 

Malfoy walks in, shoulders hunched and wand held loosely in one hand, while the other rubs at his temples, the posture is so vastly different from his usual confident saunter. He hasn’t noticed Harry yet. Then he removes his hand, looking around the bathroom, before his eyes land on Harry. He stills, mouth slightly agape. 

Harry vaguely notices that Myrtle has disappeared again. 

It takes Malfoy only a second to right himself, and that familiar sneer is back on his face, “So, Potter, _accidentally_ stalking me again, hm?”

Harry feels a scowl creep up his face, “In case you've suddenly gone blind, it’s you who walked in on me, Malfoy.”

“It’s you who’s lurking in a girls’ bathroom like a ghost,” Malfoy says, turning his wand over and over in his long fingers.

“It seems like I’m not the only one.” Harry folds his arms, his wand clutched in his uninjured hand.

##

Draco’s eyes flick over to Potter’s right hand. Which is… bloody again. There isn’t as much blood as yesterday, at least, not much that he can see, but it’s still smeared all over his hand. 

He tilts his head to the side, “Really, Potter? Your love life is pretty much irredeemable at this point, no matter how many times you try that ritual.” 

To his surprise, instead of denying it, Potter says, “Oh? And are you doing any better?” 

It takes some effort to keep himself from flushing as Draco replies hotly, “I don’t waste my time in such useless affiliations.” 

Potter’s snort infuriates him, “Figures.” 

“So, tell me, do you _like_ getting hurt? Don’t you get enough attention already?” Not that any of that attention has been good recently. 

Potter not-so-discreetly buries his bleeding hand under the other one, scowl deepening, “None of your business, Malfoy.” 

It really isn’t, but Potter is bleeding enough that the air in the bathroom is tinged metallic. And that’s a smell Draco isn’t particularly fond of. 

"When you're dripping all over the school's bathroom, it is. I happen to care about the sanitation of this place, I’m a prefect, you know." 

"Oh, so you don't want to get tainted," Harry rolls his eyes. 

"You could put it that way," Draco's shoulders straighten, his face taking on his usual expression. He cannot afford to show weakness to Potter, not twice in a row anyway. 

Potter rolls his eyes at him. "Well, you're more than welcome to use any other bathrooms at your leisure," he says. "This one isn't in use anyway." 

"Doesn't mean you should turn it into a macabre room." 

Potter's eyes narrow, he clutches his hand harder. Hard enough for it to start bleeding again, small droplets roll from between his fingers. "I was just leaving." Potter bites out. 

Draco sneers. He cannot handle this level of irritation and cheek that Potter's throwing at him without _some_ measures of retaliation. The other boy is getting too cocky. "You're still dripping blood everywhere, Potter." He points out, snark dripping off every word. 

"Ugh, for fuck's sake," Potter snarls, his eyes flashing, like a storm in a teacup, the innocent-looking comment seems to stir Potter crazy. "Just go find somewhere else to cry!" he exclaims, and throws his hand above his head, spraying blood everywhere. "Is it that hard?" 

Draco's hand itches around his wand, and there's a tiny voice inside his head, telling him that he needs to give Potter something _real_ to cry about. Potter, as if reading his mind, whips out his own wand, his breathing haggard. 

"What, Malfoy? Did I strike a nerve?"

"Be very careful about the words you're going to choose next, Potter." Draco has no qualms about hurting Potter, in fact, he has been craving to hurt _something_ to compensate for his own mental suffering for a while now. This should be healthy for him, and less than fortunate for Potter. All he needs now is another jab, a valid excuse to strike and then use against Potter when Severus calls on him. 

Because he will, of course Potter's going to tattle to Dumbledore, but Draco will be ready by then. Potter provoked him, Potter is asking for it, and Draco cannot wait to set the bastard back in his place. 

Potter goes very red in the face, his nostrils flaring. "Choose my words?!" he yells incredulously. "Who do you think you are? Get over yourself, you self righteous bloody prat! Your words mean nothing to me," 

" _Reducto_!" 

Potter ducks, drawing his own wand to conjure a shield. Draco narrows his eyes. He can faintly hear the ghost of that girl moaning in horror behind him. 

"Hide behind a shield, that's right, Potter," Draco sneers, "That's all you're good for, hiding." 

"Shut up, you sniffling git!" 

Draco pouts in mock sympathy. "Poor piss Potter with his sob story of a life." he ducks a stinging jinx coming from the shorter boy. "Hiding behind his name, and his poor rag-wearing friends… hiding behind Diggory." That struck a nerve, and Potter goes very still, his eyes wide with rage and his hand trembling in place. Draco rejoices, only momentarily at Potter's frozen figure before he pushes again. 

"Because you did, didn't you? You killed the Diggory boy because he fell for your act the same way everyone did. Then you hid behind his ass like a squealing pig, and waited for him to take the brunt of it." He, of course, knows it isn't true. But at the moment, all Draco cares about is hurting Potter. And that comment seems to hit the mark. 

Potter's wand lowers, and he's still just looking at Draco, as if he thought him incapable of making such allegations, or uttering those words at all. He seems bewildered, his mouth opens without a noise escaping. Draco waits for the response. 

"I'm not a squealing pig hiding behind people." Potter finally says, slowly, his eyes cold and his face slack. "You are. You and your racist ass hiding behind your father and his name, 'my father this' and 'my father that'…" he continues in a high pitched voice, a crude exaggerated version of Draco's own. Potter's nose wrinkles. "Well news flash, Malfoy," He spits. "He's _nothing_ but a fucking Death Eater and a slave and neither are you, his _son._ " 

"So you better cry in secret," Potter continues, face contorted in disgust. Myrtle’s ghost appears behind him before flickering out again. "Because no one is going to spare you any sympathy." 

Then without another word, Potter _shoves_ past him and throws on his cloak, the bathroom doors slam shut, sending rattling echoes against the walls as the invisible boy storms out. Draco stays, motionless, his eyes staring at the basin for almost a full minute.

##

Their inner office is an absolute mess today. He's short on one Auror team whom he dispatched to a case in Devon, and nearly half of the paperwork is still incomplete, on top of that, they're getting one letter after the other, reporting missing persons and suspicious deaths. And Kingsley only has so many people on call. 

Just on cue, a flock of paper planes lands haphazardly from the ceiling, overwhelming their wide-eyed mail receiver, who looks about ready to cry. Kingsley flicks his wand at the poor man's desk, arranging the planes. "Take your time," he tells LionClaw who stares back at him with saucer wide eyes and a slack mouth. 

They have never received this many messages a day before. Kingsley may have to ask Moody for a division merge if this goes on. "Julia, message Moody," He says, standing from his chair. "We might need to merge." 

"He already wrote us, sir," LionClaw says with a timid frown. "They're asking for a merge as well. They're overwhelmed." 

"Tell him no," Kingsley snaps, making his way through the waist-length stacks of incomplete paperwork. They needed to reduce those, and soon. "One more damn paper plane and the whole office bursts!" 

He points at Williams, their newest recruit who's staring around him with doe-like eyes, looking more intimidated than one might in a battlefield. "I want the Davidson files sent to me by lunchtime, Williams, see it done." 

"Yes sir." Williams scrambles to his feet, fixes his glasses to dive into the piles. 

Kingsley leans down over his own parchment, his brows knitted in concentration. "Tonks?" he doesn't look up. "You still haven't handed in your report." 

There's a small crash and a groan. "Working on it," Tonks replies. 

Kingsley rolls his eyes and signs the bottom of the parchment, reaching for another as he rolls this one. "Work on it harder," he tells Tonks, passing her cluttered desk in a flurry to get to the stack of closed cases. "Robert? Where is yours? " he asks the room as his eyes don't pin down Robert immediately. 

"Robert floo-ed in sick, sir," Julia muses, charming a paper into a message plane. 

Shacklebolt points at her. "Get his report over a fire call," he grabs a stack of papers from his right and dumps them on his desk. "We need it closed today."

There's commotion all around him, people bumping into other people as they all scramble to put some relief on their paper load, Futternic bustles around the cramped space, distributing coffee mugs and scones randomly to anyone who extends a hand out of their desk, Kingsley avoids her by a few inches as he races from stack to stack, waving his wand and organizing the cases. 

Their rhythm is abruptly disrupted when a male voice clears his throat, knocking on a nearby desk to get his attention. Tonks's, as it happens, the woman growls at the intruder. 

"Auror Shacklebolt?" The man says, awkwardly fixing the collar of his robes. 

Kingsley cocks an eyebrow at him. "You're not from my division." He says and grabs a scone off Futternic's tray. 

"Er, no sir." The man says, looking wildly out of place, Futternic almost runs right into him, sending him leaning on a stack of papers. "I'm from the magical mishaps department?" The man says, throwing a glance at the passing woman. "Minister Fudge wants to see you, sir." 

That doesn't sound right, Kingsley thinks. "He didn't send an owl?" 

The man is still leaning on the stacks. "Apparently it's an urgent meeting." He shrugs. Kingsley nods at him curtly, and then the man sighs. 

"Alright, thank you-"

The man cuts him off. "Adams." 

"Right, Adams." Shacklebolt shakes his head. "You may leave my office." He doesn't need people from other departments snooping on them and seeing them in disarray. 

The others look at him in silence and Kingsley nods again. "Right." 

Not sending an owl, or at least a message plane only meant one thing, the meeting was not going to be documented, it's off records, and Shacklebolt had a slight feeling that he wasn’t going to enjoy this secret meeting. Fudge barely ever had anything worthwhile to say anyway. 

"You heard that?" he snatches his hat from his desk, inwardly cursing the minister for his awful timing. "I won't be gone for long." The bustling in the office slowly trickles back into full volume. "Julia is in charge while I'm gone." 

A chorus of protest and frustrated groans arise all around the office, all synchronised with the scene of chaos around them. 

"Come on!" 

"She's the worst!" 

"Why can't it be me?!" 

"I can hear you all, you know," says Julia, rolling her eyes. "You guys suck." Kingsley rolls his eyes too and steps out, passing Adams on his way out. As he passes, he can vaguely look in on the other Auror divisions, looking nearly drowned as flock after flock comes upon them. 

"Send another team to Cornwall!" Some Auror yells in his office. 

"But we don't have any more active Aurors!" 

Kingsley passes them and dodges a low hanging paper plane before ducking into the cramped elevator, the golden gates closing the chaos before his eyes. 

"Absolute mess, ain't it?" Murphy, his fellow Auror, says. Kingsley knows that he's on the brink of retirement. Not likely while this whole mess is going on. 

"It is," There's another man in the elevator with them, plump and old with a long beard, hoisting a card box in his arms, as something widely wriggles and shifts inside, growling. He's probably from the lower floors, Kingsley thinks, the care and welfare of magical creatures. 

"We might need to bring in the new rookies soon." Murphy continues, eyeing the abundance of paper planes hovering above them. 

"Is it only the Auror department?" 

"As far as I know, Merlin knows the Aurors are always the ones in deep shit in these blunders." 

"What blunder?" 

Murphy raises his bushy grey eyebrows. "Are you daft, Shacklebolt?" The man snaps. "We're on the brink of war, boy. The ministry should be declaring a national emergency," 

"Minister Fudge has his reasons," 

"And I have my reasons for having spring rolls for breakfast, doesn't mean I'm right." 

"Of course, sir." 

The elevator pings open and Kingsley is the first to step out, hearing Murphy grumble under his breath and two women in yellow robes get inside the elevator before it closes once again. The minister's floor mainly consists of the man's office and his secretary's, and so Kingsley walks up to the Secretary's desk in a looming silence. 

"Kingsley Shacklebolt. Minister Fudge summoned me," the secretary looks up at him, her eyes raking him head to toe before she puts her fancy green quill down and straightens her skirt. 

"Just a moment," she says and disappears into the corridor that leads to the man's office, emerging only after a few minutes have passed. 

"Minister Fudge will see you now," she says and slips into her chair again. Kingsley walks past her with an impatient frown. He cannot possibly think of a reason why Fudge would want to see him. 

"Come in," comes the muffled voice of the minister as Kingsley knocks. He turns the knob and walks in, softly closing the door behind him. 

"Minister Fudge," he nods at the man behind his gigantic desk, "You wanted to see me?" 

"Yes, yes. Kingsley, take a seat."

Kingsley sits. 

"How have you been?" Fudge asks, crossing his hands on his desktop, his face stretched into an uncomfortable smile.

Kingsley hides a frown. They don't have time for small talk. "Overwhelmed by paperwork, Minister," he hopes that the man gets a hint quickly enough, Kingsley really doesn't have the time, nor the patience for a social visit. 

"I'd imagine yes," Fudge pointlessly flips a book close and then leans back in his seat. "Crime does seem to skyrocket particularly in September," 

Kingsley cocks an eyebrow at the man, Murphy's earlier words ringing in his head. This isn't just incompetence. It's ignorance, bold, and repressing. Kingsley is very glad that he's joined the order once again. At least he's actually doing something for the war effort. 

"Now, Kingsley, I won't take up much of your time. We just need to clear a few things up and you can be on your way," 

"Clear up?" 

"Just a misunderstanding, I'm sure," Fudge waves him off, ducking under his desk to seemingly reach one of the drawers and pull out a letter. 

"I received a letter this morning, it seemed a bit disconcerting," Fudge was spinning his bowler hat in his hands, almost looking nervous. 

"I'm sure it was," Kingsley cannot help the dryness in his tone. 

"Yes well… It's regarding the day the Potter boy ran away from his home. About a month ago? That entire show he threw about Dementors attacking him," the man gestures wildly with his hands and chuckles, staring at Shacklebolt to do the same. Kingsley flashes a dim smile and Fudge stills, clearing his throat before tapping his desk. 

"Yes, well… this _source_ claims that you were also present, the day of the alleged 'attack'. I looked up your hours, and it seems that you were on leave that day," 

"Yes," Kingsley drapes one leg over the other in an exaggerated display of nonchalance. "I haven't been on leave in over two months," 

Fudge opens his mouth and then closes it for a moment. "Well yes, yes. It's not that I'm implying anything, Auror Shacklebolt. But I also happen to have your floo location history on hand as well, and you seem to have used your floo to contact the headmaster on the following day after the incident."

"You seem to have done your research, Minister Fudge." 

"I'm not alleging anything, Kingsley, just so we're on the same page. It's just… well, you know how Dumbledore has been in regard to the ministry lately. I just don't see why the Aurors under my command should be in contact with him. As you know, he's just the school's headmaster --"

"And the grand chief of warlocks," Kingsley cuts in. 

"Yes, yes, both of which have little to do with politics. I just want to make sure that my people are aware of all the risks and consequences of mutiny." Fudge’s eyes are intense and trained on Kinglsey in an almost uncanny way. 

"Mutiny?" he quirks an eyebrow.

"Excuse my bluntness, Kingsley. But I think I've made my point abundantly clear… if I notice such an occurrence again, that is you or any of my other employees, going back and forth to Dumbledore for whatever reason… well, I have my responsibilities and you have yours." Fudge has put his hat back on and is wringing his fingers. 

"I'm sure we're both doing them splendidly," Kingsley replies cooly. 

"Yes, as am I. Well, that was all. Good luck with your work, Auror Shacklebolt. You may leave." He waves his hand at the door. 

"Thank you, sir, good afternoon." Kingsley hopes the man steps on dung. 

"Yes, to you as well." 


	9. Blood Was Never Beautiful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings for; blood and gore, referenced mild torture, explicit language. 
> 
> Next update, Saturday, 20th June.

_ “Nothing ever ends poetically. It ends and we turn it into poetry. All that blood was never once beautiful. It was just red.” _

_ ― Kait Rokowski _

...

Harry's hand is killing him, he's sure of it. 

He looks at it as if looking at something particularly foul or treacherous, and he imagines his hand glaring right back at him, telling him that he's the reason it's being put under this torture. 'Not my fault your mouth cannot shut itself, you angst-ridden prat,'

To which his mouth most likely replies with a curse Harry utters under his breath, rolling his eyes. 

Harry doesn't disagree too strongly against his hand's argument but doesn't particularly enjoy doing so either. 

He feels feverish, in a thick haze most days, and the entire back of his hand is numb to touch but in agony all the same. Harry almost faints when Ron grabs it by accident, asking him to hand over the salt shaker. Ron looks at his glamoured hand, and Harry shrugs, blaming his high strung reflexes. Ron looks at him for a moment, Hermione is too engrossed in her book to notice.

"You don't eat enough," Hermione says after a beat, not looking up from her book. She has noticed his lack of appetite, then. That's unfortunate.

Harry makes a half-hearted face at her. "You read too much." She shrugs and Harry returns the shrug with a rebellious bite out of his pie. 

Ron rolls his eyes at the both of them, and digs in his own food, skimming through his transfiguration textbook with glazed eyes. They have a test the next day. 

# #

"Tuesday at five, Mr. Potter. Don't be late again, or I might have to assign you another detention." It is  _ not  _ his mouth at fault here, Harry wants to glare at his hand. The toad just despises him. 

Harry doesn't listen. He doesn't even hear the sound of his own breathing as he stumbles out of the office, heavily leaning against the stones, and barely seeing ahead, Harry doesn't hear the door shutting behind himself as he staggers forward. 

He clenches and unclenches his fist rapidly even as pain blooms through his hand, the dizziness is worse than the pain and the sting is helping ground him. His jaw, too, is clenched shut as he takes in rapid breaths through his teeth. His knees feel like they’re going to buckle at any moment.  __

_ Don’t pass out. Don’t pass out. Don’t pass out.  _

Is it his glasses or is he actually seeing everything double?

Today, that bitch actually  _ did _ keep him after curfew. And didn’t even give him a note. If Filch or Snape finds him, he’d have another detention, and Harry is seriously getting sick of those. Although detention with Snape seems like heaven compared to what he does at Umbridge’s detentions. 

The halls are deserted as he makes his way over to Gryffindor Tower, he just hopes that he’d be able to get inside without garnering anyone’s attention; probably under the Invisibility Cloak. Although, he isn’t sure how he’d escape Ron or Hermione’s notice. They would be waiting for him. 

Harry had managed to fool them this long, with Hermione too tensed over their O.W.Ls and Ron too agitated with Hermione and too buried in his own homework as well. Harry isn't sure how much longer he can put up a show. Especially when he feels this unwell. 

He leans heavily against the railing as he walks up the staircase, gripping it so tightly that blood starts flowing down his hand and wrist in earnest. And just when he is halfway up, the staircase decides that Harry hasn’t suffered enough for the day and starts moving. Harry lets out a low groan and slides down, curling his arm more securely around the railing. It is all he can do not to topple over and crack his skull open on the stone. He has enough injuries as it is. 

When the stairway settles, he is more than halfway  _ down  _ the staircase. And the second-floor hallway stretches out in front of him. Maybe, maybe he should just go to the bathroom again. Wait until he can at least see straight, before going back to the tower. This way he can avoid any questions from his friends too. 

And there is little to no chance Malfoy would be there today, it had been two weeks since their last encounter and Harry hadn’t seen the other boy anywhere except classes and mealtimes. Where they had pointedly ignored each other, pointedly and peculiarly, much to Ron’s surprise. 

Harry just hopes he would be able to make it there before he collapsed. He could have gone to the boys’ bathroom, but there was just something about the abandoned one which appealed to Harry. It reminds him of his room at the Dursleys. 

Harry is almost wheezing for breath when he finally reaches the bathroom, and he is sure anyone could follow the droplets of blood he has left in a trail behind him, splattered oddly at irregular intervals on the dark stone floor. It almost looks like a scene from a horror movie, Harry, the victim, has been stabbed and is trying to get away from the assailant despite his injuries, spilling blood everywhere. 

As soon as he is in, and has closed the door, his knees finally do buckle. With a small gasp he falls to the cold marble floor. And then lets himself lay down completely. The cold press of the tiles against his feverish skin feels good and he isn’t sure if he’s going to be able to get up. He fumbles for his wand, hands trembling violently, and mutters ‘Aguamenti’ under his breath, letting water rush out of his wand and over his bloodied hand. He doesn’t have the strength to get up and go over to the sink, even though the water pressure would be better under the tap. 

Soon, the water from his wand sputters out as his concentration wavers. And he puts it away. Sighing, he lets his head drop back down into the small puddle of blood and water under him, unable to care at the moment. 

##

He can  _ not  _ study anymore, no matter how much Blaise pesters him. Pansy has gone back to her dorm by now, probably thinking Draco won’t wander out now, since it’s past curfew. 

What better opportunity than now? 

Blaise, thankfully, doesn’t follow him. Or at least, Draco doesn’t think so. He’d hate to hex him. Draco just wants some fresh air right now, and some time alone to  _ grieve.  _ Fucking Potter had to come and ruin it the last two times he had even thought about it. He won’t go into that blasted bathroom this time. Perhaps the Astronomy Tower. That sounds good, and high, with a good view and actual fresh air. 

He is strung up and exhausted as he walks, jittery. He wonders if that pink monstrosity is on rounds today, and gets even more nervous. The last thing he wants is detentions with Potter. Detentions with Potter  _ and  _ Umbridge. He shudders.

He is on the second floor, on the way up, when he notices it. And stiffens. Blood. It’s not much, just small droplets. But it sends a bolt of  _ something  _ through him. He contemplates ignoring it, but it’s like his body has other ideas as his legs immediately start following the inconspicuous trail.

_ Merlin’s beard _ , how much blood is this person losing to actually leave a trail behind? 

He freezes again when he figures out where the blood trail leads. The abandoned girls’ bathroom. No. He refuses to go in. 

But the stench of blood is so strong it’s almost on his tongue, making him want to retch. He also has a vague idea who the person inside is, if he is still inside, that is. Thoughts warring against each other, as memories rise up in his throat like bile, he steps inside. 

And this time his mind almost goes blank with astonishment. There, a crumpled body is laying on the ground in a puddle of blood. It isn’t moving. For a second Draco is terrified, thinking that Potter is dead. Dead. Dead. Fuck. He barely represses the urge to hurl. 

But then he sees the telltale rise and fall of his chest, too shallow, but present. 

Draco stills for a moment. Stuck between the urge to bolt out or run to Potter and save the idiot. He settles for staring for an indeterminate amount of time until a groan startles him out of his stupor.

He flinches and pales a little. He still contemplates making a run for it, but god, there is _ so much blood.  _

Taking a few shaky steps forward, he drops down on his knees beneath Potter’s stirring body, grimacing at the mess. 

“You came!” A voice shrieks somewhere to his right, and he almost topples over, slipping in the water as he looks around wildly, spotting that damn ghost hovering over Potter’s body. “He has been here for so long, I thought he was going to die," she sniffs. "I would have shared my toilet, but what if he didn’t become a ghost? Then he won’t even come to say hello.” 

"How long…" Draco pauses, then looks up from Potter. "How long has he been here?" He reaches a shaking hand- he hadn't noticed it shaking- to Potter's arm, and then shifts him back, revealing the back of his shredded hand, and the pool of watered-down blood that keeps on streaming away from his body. 

Myrtle starts wailing by his side and Draco's first instinct is to shut her up, but then he stifles the urge and reaches for his wand. What can he do? What is there to do… Draco swallows. 

He cannot stomach the sight of blood on marble, he cannot stomach the gore, his breathing slightly speeds up and he might just vomit any second now. Potter won’t appreciate that. 

"Go," he turns to Myrtle again, "Go and tell  _ someone.  _ Not Umbridge." Myrtle disappears and Draco is not sure telling her that is going to do him any good. He gets back to Potter, looking more wane still. Blood, Draco thinks, he has to stop the bleeding. 

Awkwardly moving on the tips of his toes as he's crouched by Potter, Draco circles the body and reaches for Potter's hand, resisting a flinch as his knees sink into the puddle of water and blood, swirling pink, underneath them both. 

His first thought is transfiguring something into a thick gauze, but he quickly realizes that he's in no condition to use his wand without blowing something up. He takes off his school robes and starts tearing, Potter's hand lying on his lap soaking through his trousers. 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. That's the only word circulating in Draco's mind.

"I CANNOT!" Myrtle shrieks, appearing by his side once again, Draco is too busy wrapping Potter's hand with the remains of his robes. "I CANNOT FIND ANYONE! Do you hear me?! I cannot! Oh, oh this is bad! CATASTROPHIC!" 

"SHUT UP!" Draco roars at her and she vanishes once again, Potter shifts momentarily but doesn't open his eyes. Even through the makeshift bandages, Draco can feel how cold he is. He needs to warm Potter up. And get him out of the puddle. 

"Potter?" he taps the back of his hand against the other boy's cheek, feeling the clammy flesh under his fingers. Too cold. "Potter, you need to wake up," Potter doesn't even groan. Draco's blood runs cold and he knows that panicking is  _ not  _ the solution right now, but he can’t  _ not  _ panic. 

Fuck. Fuck. 

Draco doesn't even have time to roll his eyes. He cannot believe this is his life. Potter fucking dying on a bathroom floor, soaked head to toe, in the  _ only  _ place Draco ever goes alone. 

He stands and stretches his back, runs a bloody hand through his hair without even realising it was drenched in Potter's blood, and then crouches to hook his arms around the boy's chest, slowly dragging him away to the nearest dry patch on the cold floor. He takes the remains of his robe and drapes it over him, and then just stands over him for a moment, panting and wide-eyed.

Potter needs help. Myrtle, that bloody wretched thing, cannot call for help. Neither can Draco. There are several reasons as to why him rushing out and calling for help would be undesirable, all of which crowd his mind in less than a second. 

At least half of Slytherin is watching him, waiting, just waiting for an excuse to report him back to the Dark Lord, or butcher him for treachery. Draco's pretty sure saving the boy who lived is considered treachery. 

Blaise wouldn't help him. He wouldn't risk his neck for Potter. Well, to be fair, Draco wouldn't risk his neck for Potter either. But here he is, soaked and robeless. He cannot risk Blaise. He cannot go to Dumbledore, he cannot go to any other professors. He cannot go to anyone. 

But he cannot just leave Potter here, bleeding and alone. 

"Ugh… you bastard," Draco tells him, sinking down next to Potter's head. Just to rest for a moment, and also - not that he would ever admit it aloud- to watch Potter's chest shallowly rise and fall, his glasses digging into his cheek, and his jaw lightly slackened. He looks like he's only sleeping. 

It's the loss of blood, Draco knows. Then comes the shock. Then probably death, judging by the blood. He cannot believe the amount of bleeding. Only from the wound in Potter's hand, it just doesn't seem possible. Is there a secret injury he doesn't know about? 

He nudges Potter again, and when the boy is unresponsive, he leans down to drag the boy upwards, draping him over his own body so Potter wouldn't drop down again. Potter leans against him, his face awkwardly half-buried in the blonde's shoulder. 

Draco clasps his wand tightly in his other hand, extending his legs and pointedly ignoring the added weight on the right side of his body. He needs to think. He needs to handle Potter, in a way that won't result in the boy's death. He most likely won't die of a single wound on his hand, but Draco isn't taking his chances. He really isn't. 

If Potter dies, and if they find out that Draco was involved in the process somehow… well, he's screwed. If he saves Potter and lingers enough to find out  _ why Potter is dying in the first place  _ then he's also screwed. 

Because if this was an attempt on Potter's life, from the  _ Dark Lord _ …, or a plan, or something that Draco didn't know about and wasn't warned about, and is actively fighting against it now, well then he'd wish that he was dead. 

After a few more minutes, Draco finally raises his wand and mutters a drying spell upon the blood puddle only two feet away from them, then turns his wand back on the two of them and does the same. He needs Potter warm. That will abate the shock for a bit. 

Potter groans, his hair brushing unto Draco's cheek, and Draco wrinkles his nose. It's… soft. And disgusting, Draco hastily tells himself. Disgustingly soft. 

Draco pushes Potter away with a hand and sighs. "Potter," he calls again, looking at Potter's hand. After a second thought, he casts another drying charm on Potter's bandages, the messy-haired boy drops back on him, like a rag doll, a sack of potatoes. Well, he's about as useful as a sack of potatoes in this state anyway. 

"You prat," Draco sneers at him because he can and then clicks his tongue. He cannot believe this, he still cannot believe that he's in this situation. "Bloody prat...Fucking Gryffindors. Oh for Merlin's sake. If you die… I'm gonna kill you, Potter." 

Potter groans again in response, muttering something incomprehensible into Draco's shirt. At least he's semi-conscious now, Draco thinks, finally allowing his eyes to roll in their sockets. Potter needs Potions. Two vials of blood replenishing Potion at least, maybe a Pepper up for the shock, and probably numerous other things Draco cannot think of or isn't aware of right now. 

How delightful. 

"Potter… Can you move? Open your eyes?" Maybe he can force the boy to walk himself to the infirmary, then deny all contact with him afterward. That sounds like a good plan if Potter manages to stop drooling on him. 

Oh, Merlin's pants. Draco eyes his shirt with unconcealed disdain. Potter is  _ drooling  _ on him. He's never wearing this shirt again, that's for sure. He might burn it in the fireplace, tear it into tatters and stuff it in Pansy’s pillow… he's not sure which yet. 

"I'm sure your virginity wasn't worth this, Potter," Draco says again as he half-heartedly checks for other injuries. There are none, Potter looks as hellish as he did two weeks ago, when they almost shred each other into bits. 

His hand, Draco grabs it, cautiously, as if he's handling a dung bomb or a bag of explosives. Two times he had encountered Potter this year, and both times Potter's right hand was bleeding. Earlier, there was too much blood to clearly see what was wrong with the hand himself, but Draco's curiosity is hard to quench now. 

Sucking a quick breath, he slowly, delicately pushes the bandages aside, then glares at the dried mass of blood on Potter's thin, skeleton-like hands. Draco sniffs as he sees the bony fingers, long they may be, but they might as well belong to an old witch, all crooked and bent but unwrinkled and soft. If Draco didn't know any better he would have thought the hand to be stitched to Potter's wrist and then glamoured to look otherwise. 

His other hand looked normal enough. This one… this one looks like an outcast. 

Draco knows it might be painful, but he starts wiping the dried flecks with the cloth anyway. He needs to see how deep the wound goes to assess the damage. Potter cries out but Draco refuses to wince in sympathy. 

_ What in the name of Merlin’s hairy saggy balls. _

There isn't a deep wound in Potter's hand. It's a whole fucking sentence. Draco's mouth falls open and he just stares at the swollen, inflamed words for a full minute. The cuts are still bleeding and the blood is smudged and makes it hard to read, but it’s discernable enough.

_ I must not tell lies.  _

"What -" his head whips to stare at Potter's mop of hair, and his contorted face, then back to the abused hand. Draco's fingers subconsciously tighten around Potter's fingers. 

Before he gets nauseous, Draco hastily reapplies the bandages and looks away, he cannot stomach looking at Potter anymore. The image burns fresh in his mind still. Who would do that to themselves? 

A few more minutes pass and Draco can breathe rightly again, he slowly transfers Potter to lean against the wall and pushes himself to his feet. He prods Potter's shoulder with his wand. 

"Potter," Draco sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. He must look like a mess now. There's no way he can sneak out of the bathroom looking like this. Potter's eyebrows twitch and so does his nose, and Draco shakes him again, curling his mouth for full effect. 

"Hmm," Potter groans, his head lolling back against the wall. 

"Potter, time to wake up now." 

"No," Potter leans his head further back against the wall, groggily muttering under his breath. 

"We're not playing house, wake up or I'll dump a bucket on you," 

"Go away," Potter mutters, trying to imitate a swiping motion with his uninjured hand as if swatting at a fly. 

"I will, once I know you aren't about to die." It's becoming fundamentally clear that Potter isn't about to die. And would probably be fine. Draco could have left then, leaving Potter to lick his own wounds… forget the disturbing hacking on the boy's hand. Forget everything and avoid this bathroom forever. But something compels him to stay, something primal and urgent, that he cannot quite stifle. 

Potter looks drunk, not in control of himself… Draco cannot even think of leaving him like this, he'd be more comfortable leaving an infant than Potter at the moment. 

Potter's eyes crack open and he owlishly blinks. And then some more. And then he lifts his hands to rub at his eyes, almost violently. 

Draco huffs and quickly mutters an  _ accio  _ to summon Potter's glasses. They're cracked. Scowling, he repairs them and hands them to the now semi-lucid boy. 

Harry quickly settles the glasses on his nose, and then, if possible, starts blinking even more vigorously. As if trying to dislodge something.

And then he moves so fast that Draco jumps back. Potter has his wand whipped out in one hand, pointing the offending item straight at Draco's face. Potter is sputtering under his breath, trying to stand up, scrambling against the wall. Like a small mouse, trying to scurry away from a pouncing cat. He seems utterly unaware but alarmed at once. 

Draco sighs. Easily plucks the wand out of Potter's  _ injured  _ hand and then settles his other hand on Potter's shoulder to steady him. The last thing he needs is the Gryffindor bashing his head into the wall by accident. 

"LET GO! What are you doing?!" Potter's voice is high and panicked, making Draco wince. He struggles under Draco's hand, wiggling as if he's being jinxed.

"Helping you, Potter. Unless you  _ like _ sleeping in the bathroom in a puddle of your own blood or bashing your head into a wall," Draco pushes Potter down to the floor again, better than having him collapse and break his nose on the floor. 

Unsurprisingly, he doesn't stay down and starts trying to get up again, making a swipe for his wand in Draco's hand. Draco takes a step back. Potter snarls, seemingly disoriented. 

"Do you really expect me to believe you? Give my wand back!"

Oh, the sheer chutzpah of this rambling fool, Draco aches to roll his eyes. 

"Look, Potter, you're obviously in no state to cast any spells, and giving you a wand will only end in disaster. I'd rather this bathroom not be reduced to rubble." Draco keeps his voice cool and nonchalant, but his eyes are fixed on Potter's hand. Which has started bleeding  _ again,  _ soaking through the recently dried bandages. 

He still cannot quite stomach the sight of Potter's hand and the words… etched into his flesh with the sharpest point of a knife, probably. Who knows how Potter does it? 

Potter opens his mouth to say something, but Draco just comes forward and actually shoves him down on the floor again, before plopping down next to him and throwing their wands a couple of feet away. "I'm not going to attack you. There, happy?" 

Potter, decidedly, does  _ not  _ look happy in the slightest, but at least he isn't attacking him with his bare hands, which is considered a win in Draco's books.

"What are you doing?" He asks, his eyes are so wary that Draco is  _ almost  _ offended. He's leaning away from Draco, and the blonde is severely tempted to tell him how he was drooling on Draco's shoulder only a minute ago. 

"I wanted to chop you up and use the chunks as Potion ingredients," he says after a short phase. "But alas, you woke up at just the  _ right  _ time." 

Potter scoffs, his nostrils flaring, Draco's noticed that happening often, mostly when Potter's angry. "I'm not fooling around," the Gryffindor growls. He still doesn't seem to notice his bandaged hand, or act as if he has any use of that hand at all. It lays on the floor, limp while his other hand is fisted upon his knees. 

This time, Draco really does roll his eyes. "I didn't know you had short term memory loss problems, too." He drawls. "Or perhaps a concussion?" he hums. 

He gives Potter a long clinical look, his eyes fixated on the boy's forehead with a pensive frown. "Hmm, now that'd be tricky." 

Potter shrinks under his gaze, fierce, his eyes alone narrow in a way that seems to want to will Draco out of existence with determination and not an ounce of magic. "Stop beating around the bush, Malfoy," Potter snaps, his eyes narrowing, "Why would you be helping me?" Then he holds up his injured hand, nodding at the remains of Draco's school robe. Draco just stares at him for a moment, unimpressed and simultaneously intrigued by how quickly Potter seems to be gathering his wits about him. He still looks pale, but a bit more coherent. 

"I mean, it'd sure be a shame if the Wizarding World's Golden Boy were to die in an abandoned girls bathroom, but what would I know," Draco smirks, an expression he knows would infuriate Potter. "You do owe me a school robe, by the way," They both look down on the tattered remains of Draco's robe, previously draped over Potter and now lying beneath them. 

Potter looks up with a scoff. "Why would  _ you  _ care about that? Ripping your robe for me?" he holds up his hand again. "Wrapping my hand? That's not you." He sneers at Draco. "The real you would probably dance over my grave along with Voldemort." 

Draco shouldn't have flinched. They were just  _ words. _ But he did, hard. Almost smacking his head on the wall behind him. Potter has no idea about the real him, and he has no idea what the Dark Lord is really capable of. Potter doesn't get it. 

And true to Draco's thoughts, Potter does misinterpret his flinch. 

"You don't know what you're talking about, Potter," he hisses. 

The Gryffindor almost looks surprised for a second, before his lips curl up in a cruel smile, "Why? Afraid of saying Voldemort's name? Never knew a 'Malfoy'", he raises his hands in exaggerated air quotes, "would be afraid of a simple name." And then, he abruptly stills, staring at his raised hand as if it's something particularly foul and disgusting. He looks at the bandages for a long moment, before quickly starting to tear them off. 

Draco wants to throttle the boy. "Really, Potter." He says instead. "You're going to bleed to death," 

Potter doesn't pause his mad, erratic movements, and shreds the stripes of cloth away from his hand, "I don't need your help." He bites out, sounding a bit choked up, Draco assumes it's from the pain.

He shrugs, slowly, and then turns away from the other boy. What was he thinking? Of course, this is how things were going to turn out. This was Potter's life he saved, for whatever reason, probably the last person on earth who would appreciate it. "You're right, Potter. Saving your life was an absolute waste of my time." Draco crosses his arms. "You cannot save someone who doesn't want to be saved." 

"By you? No thanks." Potter slumps back against the wall, his eyes falling shut. 

Draco jeers. "Are you going to hack those on your other hand? _ 'I must not accept any help' _ ?" Potter's eyes shoot open.

Draco ruthlessly continues. "You do realize how twisted you would look once everyone finds out, don't you?" 

"You know nothing," there is a distinct weary edge to Potter’s voice. 

"And you clearly do, or you wouldn't have shredded your hand." Draco is very good at keeping any shred of concern from his voice, a concern he is absolutely not feeling, shouldn't be feeling, anyway. Slytherins curiosity, that is all. 

Potter throws him a look of pure loathing and then hangs his head, as if too exhausted to carry an argument. 

"I didn't do it." He says, and Draco's eyebrows rise on their own accord. That’s… weird, definitely untrue, and weird. Potter really does expect him to believe this, doesn't he? 

"I'm sorry, what?" he asks aloud. 

Potter huffs. "I said ' I didn't do it '." He groans again, this time out of muffled frustration. "I'm so tired of getting blamed for everything!" Draco is sure that if Potter were able to, he would have stood up and stalked off right then, but as it is, he looks too exhausted to even keep his eyes open. 

"It's your hand." Draco’s voice has lost its accusing quality. Potter just idly sat and let someone else do that to his hand? That seems highly unlikely, but as Draco's come to learn, nothing is impossible when it concerns Potter. 

Potter's eye twitches. "That doesn't mean anything, okay?! I didn't do it, why would I even do such a thing?" Draco frowns. Exactly,  _ why?  _ Why would anyone do that to themselves, that's the question. 

"Who did this to you, if it wasn't you?" Draco knows, even as he speaks, that the chances of Potter doing this to himself are highly unlikely. And once the reason dawns on him, Draco wants to hit himself. Potter was right-handed. Draco had known that since their first class together. Potter's injured hand was his right one. And yet… the cuts were in his handwriting, precise, but impossible to manage. 

It is a very relieving realisation, at least. The image of Potter cutting into his own hand with the edge of a knife makes for a vivid, nauseating scene. 

"Whatever, Malfoy, as if you care," 

Why does Potter have to be so difficult about everything? Draco is more intrigued than ever. He makes up his mind, fast. "Potter…If you don't tell me, I would have no choice but to go through the process of elimination, is it your... friends? Weasel and the muggle-born?" He seriously doubts it. 

"No!” Potter looks horrified at the mere prospect, “Just leave it." 

"I didn't lose a robe, just to  _ leave it.  _ Tell me, or I'll tell everyone." Low blow, but it's not like Draco cares. Slytherins utilise anything and everything in order to achieve success, pride or morals don't necessarily play a hand in it.

Potter is flabbergasted. "What?" 

"You heard me. Tell me who did this to you, or I'll tell everyone about your hand.” Draco doesn’t attempt to keep the smugness from his voice, “You do know how quickly that'll catch on, right? One whispered word and it'll be printed in every newspaper the next morning." 

"Are you threatening me?" Potter is glaring at him. It’s not very effective. 

"If you're too scared of the person who did this to go as far as to protect their identity, you're most likely not going to do anything about me threatening you." Draco waves him off. "Tell me now, Potter, who carved words into your hand?" 

The other boy uncomfortably shifts in his place. "They didn't carve it, not… in the literal sense of the word. Um… how do I know that you won't tell anyone anyway?" Potter’s eyes are skeptical and honestly, it’s not like Draco can blame him. If the roles were reversed, right this moment, Draco would die before uttering a word to Potter. But the roles aren't reversed and Draco is a skilled player. 

"Why would I do that if I'm getting what I want?" Draco asks, exasperated. He has to admit, playing against someone who isn't familiar with the rules of the game is rather exhausting. 

Potter narrows his eyes further, turning to fully face Draco. "What do you want?" he asks, and Draco smirks. 

Had he ever entertained the idea that it would be easy? Because it  _ wasn’t.  _

"The name of the person who did this to you." Draco shrugs. "Potter honestly… you should drop by in the infirmary to get your head checked later." He isn’t even saying it sarcastically anymore, now that Draco thinks about it, Potter could actually have a concussion. Draco stops himself from frowning in concern. He stashes the weird tightening in his chest for later procession in his mind, when he's less occupied and confused. He'll deal with it then. 

"My hand is fine. And… it was Umbridge. It still is her, I have another detention with her this week." Draco stills and opens his mouth, then closes it. Before finally speaking. 

"Umbridge." 

"Yeah, her. I don't think she really likes me." It couldn't have been more of an understatement. 

"She's… carving words into your hand." Draco had known she was a fat pink unreasonable toad with a probably sadistic streak, but torturing students? She’s a  _ teacher _ , a very sorry excuse for one, but a Professor nonetheless. Dumbledore cannot have known about this, or any other Professor for that matter, if they did, they wouldn't have allowed Umbridge to carry on with her medieval methods. On Potter too, at that. 

"No. No, she has this- um… this quill, that doesn't need ink." Potter frowns, then glares at his hand. "She just has me write lines… and the quill… I don't know how it works. But somehow, it uses my blood as ink? I don't know. The moment I start writing… the words start appearing on the back of my hand." 

"Appearing or sculptured into?" It’s a struggle to keep his face completely blank. 

"Who cares about the wording, Malfoy?" Potter grumbles as he slides down lower on the wall, clearly exhausted. 

"You haven't told anyone." 

"I cannot tell anyone." 

"Potter, you have to tell someone. This is.. I'm not sure whether it has occurred to you or not… but this is torture. The very definition of it." Potter’s hand has started bleeding sluggishly again. 

"When I say, I cannot tell anyone, you need to take my word for it, Malfoy. Ron and Hermione will  _ flip.  _ And there's nothing they can do, so that'll only upset them more, the professors have no choice but to abide by Umbridge's rules, she's from the Ministry, she can get them fired if they act out…" 

"Potter, you and your hero complex--" with Gryffindors  _ this _ stupid, they’d give Hufflepuffs a run for their money, Draco sneers.

"Professor Dumbledore hasn't looked me in the eye even once since the term started, so he's clearly too busy to deal with my trivial complaints," Potter sounds  _ very  _ bitter. 

"Trivial complaints? Potter… you almost bled yourself dry not half an hour ago." Bleeding out on the marble floors, unmoving. 

"You don't understand." 

"No, I really don't understand your brutish Gryffindor logic, Potter. If you don't tell someone, there might not be a next time. Do you realise that?" Or does he think that just because he escaped the Dark Lord, he is unkillable? 

"I can't go to Madam Pomfrey, she'll find out, and I cannot just go around asking for healing balms either." 

"You need to do something about it or your hand will be ruined beyond recognition, Potter. Let me help." The last few words are out of his mouth before Draco can stop himself. But after a moment, he doesn’t want to take them back. He couldn’t help his mother, he was helpless then. But he  _ can  _ help Potter since the idiot is so damned stuck on trying to get himself killed. 

"How are you going to help, exactly? Rip up another robe for me?" Draco snorts.

"As tempting as it sounds, no. I can get my hands on Potions, balms, anything that helps," He's not sure as to  _ how  _ yet, but he knows that if there's anyone who can do that, it will be Draco. 

"Why would you want to help me?" Potter is staring at him now, actually  _ staring _ and not merely glaring. 

"If you don't let me help you, and you won't tell anyone about this, then I'll reveal your ‘secret’." 

"We hate each other, just two weeks ago --" Draco cuts him off, impatient but not wanting to let any misunderstandings linger. 

"And none of that has changed. I still hate your guts Potter, and I'm sure you hate mine. This is strictly business. Nothing else." Absolutely nothing. 

"But what do you get out of this?" Potter has crossed his arms over his chest, tucking in his still bleeding hand under his arm. 

"I need a distraction.” Not a lie, but not the truth. Not that he is going to explain it to Potter. “And you need to live. Seems like a good deal to me. Just for once, Potter, use that hero complex for your own good, instead of for others." 

"And you won't tell anyone, anything, about any of this?" Oh, they’re making progress, at last. 

"Not if you don't." 

"Did you just threaten me into saving me?" Draco lets a smirk creep up onto his face, the Slytherin in him is proud.

"Someone has to, Potter. When is your next detention?" he asks brusquely. 

"Tuesday. It starts at five… It probably lasts for quite a while." Potter looks frustrated and angry just at the thought of it. 

"Then I'll be here with the Potions. We'll meet up here after your detention. I'll have the Potions by then." He still doesn't know how, but he will figure something out. He is Draco Malfoy. 

"Don't stand me up," Potter grumbles, before making an attempt to push himself to his feet, barely succeeding. Draco watches him as he walks over to their wands and picks his own up. Then Draco stands up too, smoothly bending and picking up his own wand as Potter makes for the door, heaving his bag upon his shoulders. 

"Don't be late," he says just as Potter steps out. 


	10. Pure and Simple Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the kind feedback!
> 
> Warning(s) for: explicit language, mild/ referenced violence
> 
> Next Update Saturday: July the fourth

_ “The pure and simple truth is rarely pure and never simple.”  _

_― Oscar Wilde._

... 

All his life, Harry felt as if he was standing on the edge of a roof overlooking the entirety of his life, looking down at the passing crowd, feeling the high wind musing his hair, hearing the commotion, even though he's not a part of it, inching closer past the ledge, year after year after year. 

Harry's roof is a source of comfort, something stable, something that doesn't move unless he wishes it to, the roof stays and so does he, his breathing and the whistling wind are the only sounds in his ears and the pounding in his heart the only feeling in his chest. His arms are extended by his side, not to imitate flying, but to allow the wind to consume him, comfort him as he looks down and mourns the fact that he will never walk down a myriad of stairs and join other people, normal people who didn't sway on the edge of a building, or alternatively, hurl himself off the ledge, close his eyes and just  _ wait  _ until the end comes for him. Harry's whole life has been on a standstill. 

As he walks out of the bathroom, partially leaning on the walls for support, Harry feels as if he's been  _ shoved  _ off the ledge of that roof instead of leaping himself, because just a few minutes ago, he had woken up to Draco Malfoy poking him in the shoulder, looking him in the eye, and demanding who carved words into his hand. 

People don't do that. 

Ron and Hermione… are another matter completely, they're not on the roof with him, they're only in the throes of Harry's game, where Harry's roof doesn't exist and he's normal. 

They give him his boundary, they give him his roof. And let him be when he seems as if he needs loneliness more than the company. 

Harry's scarred hand is on the roof with him, something to be kept out of sight, something to be forgotten after the turbulence passes… something that the wind might take away from Harry eventually. 

Draco Malfoy isn't supposed to be on the roof with him. 

Harry doesn't think he was there, not in the literal sense of the word, because, in his head, there was nothing but him and the roof up in the sky. But he felt  _ something,  _ and that something propelling him outwards, off the ledge and into the air. 

Draco Malfoy, his childhood bully, ripped up his robe for him, wrapped his hand, and stopped the bleeding, manipulated Harry into telling him who did the unspeakable to Harry's hand… and then he offered to help him. 

People don't  _ do  _ that. That's the exact reason why Harry didn't tell his friends the moment he got out of Umbridge’s office that first day, the same reason why he never told  _ anyone.  _ Some things are up there on the roof with Harry, others are not. 

It's bothering Harry, how Draco Malfoy is privy to a rooftop secret. 

He walks to the moving stairs and he waits, gazing down at his hand, unwrapped, but clean, not bleeding, just… there. 

Only when he makes his way through the Fat Lady's portrait, does Harry finally dare to release the tension from his shoulders and drop his Invisibility Cloak. He spares a glance around the common room, which is predictably empty except for Ron and Hermione, both dozing against each other in front of the fireplace. 

Harry moves and stands in front of them, staring at the sleeping figures with heavy eyes and bated breath. They must have been waiting up for him. In Harry's game, Ron and Hermione don't need to stay up until nearly midnight on the couch for him. They would already be dating too. Harry needs to do something about that sometime. 

Slowly, Harry reaches for Hermione’s arm but then stops himself at the nick of time. They would question him staying out this late, they would see the scars on his hand, the one he hadn't had time to glamour yet, and then they would be dragging him to McGonagall's office like a naughty child to help him tattle on Umbridge.

Harry frowns. He cannot just let his friends sleep on a couch like that, for  _ him.  _ And then lie about it later. It's not fair on them. 

Harry's hand is already fishing out his wand, and he quickly mutters a spell under his breath, glamouring his hand into the smooth surface it was before. Then he looks over at the desk clock and rolls his eyes at himself before adjusting it to a few hours prior. 

"Harry?" Hermione mutters once Harry shakes her arm. "What," 

"You guys fell asleep on the couch," Harry explains as he reaches to jostle Ron, who was heavily snoring, his head tilted back against the head of the couch. Ron wakes with a start as Hermione runs a hand through her hair, grimacing as she stretches her sore muscles. 

"We were waiting up for you," she says, watching as Ron blinks his eyes open and yawns.

"What time is it?" 

"Ten thirty," Harry hopes his reply is smooth enough that they won't feel tempted to check the time themselves. Hermione’s eyes narrow, and she looks around the darkened room in confusion. 

"But- but," she exchanges a look with Ron. "The common room is empty." 

"The first Quidditch match is tomorrow. I think everyone needed a good night's rest." 

Ron hums, but Hermione keeps on looking at Harry. "Harry, what's going on?" 

Harry stares at her for a bit, then at Ron who's starting to catch on, his brows knitted, Ron looks from the clock to Harry and then back again. "Harry?" 

Harry realizes how idiotic it must have been to tinker with the clock. He's not trying to fool children, of course, they would know something is amiss. Even the clock seems as if it's scoffing at him. 

"I'm really tired," Harry mutters. He wants to go on his rooftop again, detached, unconcerned. Harry yearns to observe, from above, not get stuck in the middle of this presumably messy conversation. "I'm going to sleep. You guys should go to bed too. Don't fall asleep here," 

"Harry, what the hell," Ron says as Harry tries to make his way past him. "Mate," 

Harry tries stepping back from them, he longingly stares at the staircase that leads to his dorm, but Hermione cuts in his view. "Where were you Harry?" 

There are some points in Harry’s life, where his head feels like a heated boiler, foaming and whistling as it's goaded on with one mess after the other. He desperately wants to avoid Hermione’s turn, lest the boiler exploded. He just needs today to be over. 

"Let it go, Hermione." 

Hermione, very characteristically, doesn't let it go and takes Harry's wariness as a cue to continue the beginning of her passionate abstract of the coming argument. Harry knows how this is supposed to go too well. 

"You've been acting oddly since the start of the term," Hermione starts. "Don't think I haven't noticed. You're skipping meals, you're sneaking in and out at odd hours, we couldn't find you after Umbridge’s detention for at least an hour, and then you claim to be in the kitchens-" Harry wants to sleep. He is so tired, and his mind is spinning, and even imagining such a scene makes him so unbelievably dizzy that the urge to sink down and fall asleep on the spot is nearly unavoidable. Most of his spinning thoughts are occupied by Malfoy and Umbridge. And the rest of his attention is drawn to his still throbbing hand. 

"I missed dinner," he says wearily. Kitchens? That's what they were talking about.

"While you were scarfing down a turkey sandwich! What is going on?!" He knows that Hermione cares for him, that Ron did too, they’d shown it time and again. But sometimes it feels like they are trying to force entry into his rooftop, an entry he doesn't want to grant. To anyone. 

Every year that passes, it seems to be getting excessively harder to keep people out without stepping on any toes. The toes in question seem to be very mad at the moment. Hermione sure rants a lot when she's enraged. Harry thinks that she would make a terrific spokesperson if she put her mind to it. 

Hermione goes on some more and Harry tunes her out, just a bit, and turns his eyes to stare at a small rip on the sofa's cushion, right above a roaring lion's shoulder. Wounded in battle, Harry thinks in distant amusement. Everything always seems a bit dulled, like a dimmed flickering light when he's tired. 

A wounded cushion lion. Harry wonders whom he battled. Probably a hoard of second years with too much fun time on their hands. Maybe a pillow fight. 

Ron's voice filters into Harry's thoughts, jostling him in his place. 

"Hermione," Ron says warningly. He gives Harry a look that he gives Harry sometimes when he notices Harry's eyes glazing. As if he knows exactly what Harry finds more entertaining than what's going on in the real world, and as if he wishes to be there, in Harry's head with him. 

Hermione finally turns and stares at Harry before whirling to face Ron. "No, Ron," she says with a shake of her head. "I know you said that we need to go easy in him because of-" 

"Because of what?" Harry cuts her off and Ron noticeably pales. Harry's eyes narrow. This conversation is officially entering the murky lake of the ‘I don’t like this’ territory. Not that murky lakes are likable by themselves in the slightest. Maybe to frogs. Or merpeople? Harry shakes his head before that train of thought dispatches him from the argument. 

This is important. He has to pay attention. They've been talking to each other. Behind his back. Worrying on him. Harry needs to know why. 

"Nothing. It's nothing," Ron clears his throat, tinkering with the front of his sweater. Harry's eyes shoot to Hermione, looking beyond frustrated and concerned. The concern is warming, but his limbs feel heavy and he is sure he is going to pass out again. Something about frogs… or Ron and Hermione. 

Yes, they're arguing. 

"Because of what?" Harry asks again with a small hint of irritation. He really doesn't like repeating things. 

"Because of Cedric," Hermione finally says, in spite of Ron's angry groan. 

"Hermione!" Ron exclaims, glaring at her and giving her  _ the  _ look. He does that a lot, Harry has noticed. Ron's the most expressive out of the three of them. 

Cedric. Harry lets the name sink in, lying flaccid on the bottom of his mind, festering, before he dares to let it take on the usual effect. Cedric. Dead Cedric. Alive writhing Cedric. 

Cedric with a woman's voice. 

"Cedric." Harry keeps his voice flat, but clenches his injured hand, letting pain flare up his wrist. Pain is good. Pain is predictable. It's the only thing the body never gets used to. It forgets. Harry likes reminding his forgetful body of pain most times, showing it how it's done, showing it how to adapt. 

Adapting is the first rule of survival, after all. 

"Harry, mate, we're all tired, let's just-" Harry can see Ron trying to do damage control, but now Harry’s attention has been piqued.

So, they’re talking about him behind his back. About Cedric. Or not about him, he's dead, most likely about Harry in regards to Cedric. Which isn't much of an improvement. 

Hermione sees the look on Harry's face, and the scowl on her face softens. "Ron thinks… that you're affected by Cedric's death," she says. "And the… and with what happened. And I agree with him but- but this is ridiculous! We're your best friends, and we're worried about you!" 

"I'm not- Cedric has nothing to do with this." Harry is aware he is sputtering. Only now he's realising how much of an idiot he's been lately. Of course, Cedric's death would be their first conclusion. Of course, they think Harry is stuck in an uncertain, quivering limbo of guilt and undealt grief. Which isn't untrue. Not really. 

All things considered, had Harry been in the right mindset, he would have seen this ages ago. They've been too crowded at Grimmauld place, of course, Ron and Hermione quailed at the thought of confronting him then. 

Harry is quite sure that Ron doesn't know about the nightmares, not while he can finally have a silencing charm around his bed, instead of using his hand to choke himself into a semblance of quiet. Therefore, their concern regarding Cedric must be in part hypothetical, just a thing that they should logically deal with. 

"Harry,” Ron starts cautiously, as if afraid that Harry is about to explode, he might, Harry isn't sure. 

“We shared a room for a month, and we’ve been sharing this dorm since… I know you’re probably having nightmares.” Fuck, fuck, Ron heard him? How had Harry been so careless? Well, there goes his certainty. This wasn't a planned response then, he'd worried them, he's been the cause. Shit. 

Ron, apparently unaware of Harry’s panic, continued, “You’re always exhausted, and your eyes are almost sunken in, have you seen the size of your dark circles? Most of the time you look like you could keel over any second.

“But I didn't tell anyone!” Ron continues, probably upon seeing Harry’s expression, “Well, except for Hermione. We were always here for you, to come to us, we've sort of been waiting for you to approach us yourself if you… needed to talk? I don't know how this sort of stuff works." 

Hermione nods along. "We thought you might speak to Sirius or Remus or  _ someone  _ about it, but you didn't and we were more worried- and then all this? Harry, what's going on? Please… let us help you." Harry crosses his arms, gripping at the wrist of his right hand as if that would abate the pain. 'Get used to it body, ' Harry viciously presses his palm against the sleeve of his other arm.

'Get used to the pain. Tuesday is going to be delightful. '

He glances at Hermione, then Ron, taking in their concerned, almost frantic expressions. They know he's not pleased, almost half a second sooner than Harry himself comes upon the realisation. He's not pleased. Harry is angry. 

"You've been talking behind my back," he settles.

"That's all you take from that?” Well, Harry expected that. He closes his eyes, Hermione continues, heedless, “Harry! You scared us half to death this whole summer, and then the school starts and you're getting worse! We cannot help you if you don't talk to us!" 

"Hermione, we're crowding him." Ron intervenes, looking nervously at Harry. 

"Well, maybe he needs to be confronted with his problems!" Hermione’s voice rises an octave. It’s so different from Aunt Petunia’s shrill shriek, but it gives him a headache nonetheless. Hermione without a mouth, now that's an interesting twist. 

"Stop—" Harry starts, eyes snapping open, why is this so hard? His head feels fuzzy, if he passed out now, he’s sure the glamour would fall too. He really doesn’t need to deal with this. He needs it to stop. Everything. He doesn't even crave the rooftop anymore, just blackness. 

"Maybe if you actually sat down and talked about Cedric Diggory, his ghost wouldn’t be haunting you!" she throws her arms out as if to indicate Cedric’s ghost lounging around the common room. Wouldn’t that be funny, Harry thinks, if Cedric were watching him, right now? Harry wants to talk to him sometime if he were. 'Sorry I killed you by the way, I'm sure being dead sucks,'

Diggory would probably laugh it off and then they would be champs, having butterbeer and talking Quidditch. How awfully quaint. 

He sobers up quickly, stopping that tiniest pull against his lips. It's not funny, it's not supposed to be. Nope. Not funny. He wouldn’t even  _ be _ a ghost if it weren’t for Harry. 

Ron is staring at him again. Giving him the look again. "Hermione, seriously, look at him." They both turn to ogle him and Harry rolls his eyes. He probably gets the same amount of ogling as the LockNess Monster. "Let's just go to sleep," Ron says. Harry casts a grateful look in his direction. Yes, they all needed to sleep. 

"Ron, you're coddling him." Harry’s knees feel like they’re about to buckle again. He wants to collapse. Preferably on his bed and not on the common room floor. How is he still awake? 

"No, you're going on a row again! We  _ agreed  _ to deal with this like adults. I shouldn't be the one telling you this." Harry somehow doubts that even adults would be dealing with this, whatever it is, very well. 

"I know what we agreed on, Ronald. I was there. I've also been dealing with Harry for over five years now, the same as you. I know when he needs to be pushed or let go. You're coddling him." That gets his attention and a familiar spark of indignation and anger spikes through him. 

"I'm sorry,” he starts, “Deal with me? I'm not a child! Why are you talking like I'm a nutcase that needs to be  _ taken care of _ ?!" Is that what they see him as? 

"It's Merlin knows what in the morning! And you're shouting at him in the common room, you know how he gets--" Ron starts, trying to placate Hermione. 

"How I  _ get _ ?! I'm standing right here!" He hates it when people talk about him like he’s not there. It reminds him too much of the Dursleys. Ron and Hermione don't usually do that.

"Yes, Harry, how you get." Ron turns to face him, his face red with exasperation. "Don't pretend like it's not true, because we both know it is. You're not just any normal person to be around, not like Dean, or Seamus or fucking Neville! You're different, we have to be so careful with you, all the damn time because… well because you're  _ you."  _

"And you have a problem with that," even as Harry says that, a phrase starts repeating itself in Harry’s head, over and over again.  _ You’re just not any normal person.  _ He has been trying so hard, all his life, tilted on the edge of a building, trying to be normal… trying to find normal, as if being normal is something that people learn to do. All his life, he had been keeping everything that made him any less than desirable up on the rooftop with him while trying to keep everyone out, keep them away, and he still isn’t normal. He can’t even fake it. 

Ron seems to be reading his thoughts again. His eyes instantly soften. "I don't mean it in a cruel way." He says and it's the truth. But so were his other words. "But you have to notice some things too, Harry. I know you do because I know you. The normal approach doesn't work with you, Hermione, and I know that. We respect that… but you gotta give us a break too, mate,"

"A break from me?" The anger is gone from his voice, and Harry speaks flatly, emotionless. 

"No." Ron huffs. "A break from figuring things out for ourselves. For fuck's sake, it took me  _ two years  _ to figure out that you hate pork! Because you always kept eating it, and my mom kept making it because she thought  _ you  _ liked it, it turns out you fucking don't… I had to stay up a whole night while you purged your stomach after that whole thing. It's things like that," 

Hermione crosses her arms. "Exactly, Harry. You need to talk to us. We cannot figure things out for ourselves all the time. If you're upset about Cedric, or You-know-who being back, or even the Dursleys, then you should talk to us!" 

"But it's not Cedric!" Not just him, anyway. Harry is really, really too tired to deal with this. 

"Then what is it?!" 

"Are you really upset with me because you cannot figure me out?" They stare at him. "I don't need a minder, you're not my parents," he is not some puzzle for them to figure out, he is a person, however  _ abnormal.  _ They can’t get to treat him like a puzzle and then get angry when the pieces don’t fit perfectly. 

Because there are a lot of missing pieces that Harry cannot find himself, and nobody, not even Ron and Hermione, are as frustrated by this as him. 

"Isn't that funny?" Hermione huffs. "Because sometimes we have to act like we are, don't we? I'm not saying that it's a bad thing, or I'm tired of doing it, I'm not _complaining._ ” That’s exactly what she seems like she’s doing. “We take care of _each other,_ exactly the way the other needs to be taken care of. That's what friends do. So if you need someone to make sure you eat, or do your homework or don't get locked up in your head all the time…. Is it a bad thing?" 

"What are we arguing about right now?" Harry asks, all and any fight draining out of him. It’s with sheer force of will that he stops himself from swaying on his feet. 

Ron finally seems to have enough of this, he steps between him and Hermione and then grabs Harry by the shoulders. "I think we should go to sleep," he says. "Right now." He stresses when Hermione half-heartedly glares at him. "Before we make this any worse. Please. Come on Harry." 

Hermione holds Ron's gaze for a delayed beat and then sighs. "Yes, good night Harry," she finally concedes, rubbing her forehead and leaning down to grab a fallen book. 

Harry knows it's wrong, he knows he's not really helping his case, but he can't  _ not  _ have the last word. Even though he's tired and swaying and almost delirious with the need to sleep. 

"Why, because you think I've  _ reached my limit  _ for the night?" he jeers at Hermione who just shakes her head. 

Ron answers for her. "No, because I'm fucking tired." The redhead rolls his eyes and grabs Harry's elbow again, groggily pulling him to the staircase. "Go to sleep, Hermione," he calls over his shoulder. "We're not dealing with another ' Hermione overslept ' scenario." 

##

"There you go, Severus. One cuppa, no sugar." A steaming mug of tea is placed in Severus’ hands, warming them up. 

"Thank you, Molly." 

"I don't know how you drink it that bitter, Severus, I'll be honest." Molly shakes her head as she bustles around the kitchen, preparing more mugs of tea, tailored to everyone’s tastes. 

"His tastes are as bleak as his soul," Severus grits his teeth when he hears Black’s voice from the doorway, refusing to turn to look at him. 

"Sirius Black!" Molly’s voice is stern as she reprimands that mutt. 

"Oh, come off it Molly. Let me have my fun," Black says, giving a long-suffering sigh as he saunters in the kitchen, plopping down on the chair next to Lupin.

"It's alright, Molly. I believe Arthur is calling for you?" he says smoothly, Black's impertinence isn’t worth his time anymore.

"Oh yes, that man… I swear. It's like I'm raising eight children." The fondness in her voice is hard to miss. 

"Molly, dear?" comes Arthur’s call again. 

"I'm coming, love! Enjoy the tea before it goes cold, Severus," he most certainly would not. 

"Again, an accurate representation of the man's entire life. Bitterly cold. You're on fire tonight, Molly," Severus turns his eyes to Black, keeping his face blank, lest his murderous intent be clear. 

"Sirius," Lupin says, somewhat unsurprisingly. He had always acted as a mediator. Mild and completely in contrast to the beast he turns into without the consumption of Wolfsbane. 

"Moony," 

"You're as much a child as you were thirteen years ago, Black. Doesn't it get tiring?" Severus tilts his head to the side as if asking seriously, merely out of curiosity, but with a mocking curl of his lips that not even an idiot like Black could miss. 

"About as much as you get tired of avoiding a mirror, Snivellus." that name sends a bolt of rage through him, which he quickly suppresses. That’s what Black wants, to provoke him. Well, they aren’t children anymore. At least, Severus isn’t. 

"Boys." The wolf says again, putting a warning hand on Black's arm. He sneers at Lupin, the only ‘boy’ here is Black. 

"Yes, Lupin, leash your boyfriend before he mucks up anything." This time Severus makes no attempt to hide his contempt.

Something flashes in Remus's eyes, dangerous and lurking, even as the man smiles kindly. "Severus, I think we should all take a moment to calm down here." his smile turns into a long stare at Black. "We're grown adults."

"Some of us are," Black snorts, tapping his fingers against the table. Severus regards them both with cooled eyes and a quirk of his brow. 

"I fully agree, Black." He says with another sneer and tears his gaze away, glancing down at his steaming tea. He has no inclination to drink it when it's this hot. He's always been quite wary of hot beverages. 

The fireplace flares behind him, just as Severus is tempted to raise his cup for a hesitant sip. His eyes narrow, and he lowers his cup, his mind perfectly blanks as he straightens his back. He doesn't rise but Black and Lupin do, looking over his shoulder and nodding greeting as Albus fully steps into the kitchen. 

"Dumbledore is here," Kingsley says, rather unnecessarily, knocking the table as he rises from his chair, sloshing Severus's tea, and Severus watches as it stains the hardened wood, sinking into the table.

"Gather the guys," Arthur calls over his shoulder and exchanges a firm handshake with Dumbledore. 

"Hello there, Albus," Molly says, patting the old purple-robed man on his arm. 

"Hello Molly," he smiles at her. The ever-present twinkle in his eyes had diminished drastically ever since Potter had appeared with Diggory's dead body. 

"Charlie, be a dear and call for Bill," she orders her second eldest son, and Severus flicks his eyes to Charlie Weasley. He remembers teaching the boy —now a twenty-something-year-old man—only a few years ago. He was quite adept at Care of Magical creatures if Severus isn't mistaken. He works with dragons now, Molly has mentioned that in passing.

Severus watches him go, and then finally swipes his cup for a sip. It's lukewarm now, the only way he likes it. The members slowly start filtering into the kitchen, some taking their seats and a few standing in the corners. Moody in particular, looks grouchy as he glares at Severus. Bill Weasley, also a former student, settles by his left, Tonks sits by his right. 

Severus stifles a jeer at close proximity to the others. He remembers Tonks's disastrous presence in his Potions classroom quite vividly, and by the looks of things, she hasn't seemed to be cured of the clumsiness in the slightest. 

"If everyone is settled?" Albus asks, arranging his robes as he sits down, Molly puts another steaming teacup before the old man, followed by a levitated tin of lemon drops. 

"Nearly everyone, sir," Bill says, reaching over Severus to snatch a butter cookie from a stacked plate. Severus shrinks back in his seat with the tea held tightly in his hand.

Severus glares at the whelp, "Who is left?" he asks. 

Tonks shrugs. Her shoulder-length pink hair shift with the slight movement. "Fletcher," she says. "No idea where he is." 

Albus nods and picks a lemon drop. "We shall have to proceed without him then. Remus?" 

Severus leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. It's time to observe. 

"I negotiated with the London pack via letter during the last two weeks," The wolf exchanges a look with Black. "I'm supposed to meet them at the next full moon," 

Minerva frowns. " _ During _ a full moon?" 

Severus inwardly hums at that certain bit of information. Of course, they want to meet during the full moon, on their own terms and territory. They're not desperate like the Order is. They don't need them as much as The Order needs them. It would have been surprising if they  _ hadn't  _ been asking for such conditions. 

"They won't meet as humans." Lupin says, confirming Severus's inner drawl. 

"It's one of their only conditions." 

"That doesn't seem safe at all Remus," Molly frets, frowning. "They might not take the Potion themselves… and if you're going alone --"

"That's exactly what I said," Black grumbles, his face darkening. "You cannot face a whole pack alone, Moony. I think we should forget about the London pack. There should still be plenty left." 

Lupin turns to him with an exasperated sigh. "The London pack is the biggest in Britain." He explains with a huff. Severus's eyebrows rise as he sees Black's shoulders slackening.

Interesting, Severus thinks. "They have seventy-five active werewolves. And that's not even taking the mates and the children into the count. The largest pack after them, is the Exeter Pack… with only ten active members. Only four of them have werewolf mates." 

Black makes an irritated growl. "Better ten, than none and dead." But Lupin isn't even looking at him anymore. 

"This is our best chance, Albus." Albus gazes back at Lupin with a perfectly blank expression on his face, his hand thoughtfully running down his beard in silent contemplation. "Seventy-five werewolves on our side is a strategic win. Seventy-five against us… is catastrophic." 

Black still looks highly disagreeable. "You shouldn't go alone," 

Lupin groans. It's obvious that they've had this argument before. "What else are you suggesting?" he asks and Black scoffs. "They want to meet during the full moon. You already know why, because they need to make sure my intentions are sincere. The wolf cannot lie to them. If they see that I'm on their side they won't have a reason to attack me." 

Black, like a stubborn hippogriff, remains corrected, shaking his head and refusing to look at the other man, "I'm not willing to take the chance, it's  _ seventy-five _ against one." 

As if it's his choice, Severus sneers. Black has least amount of the decision making around here, the mutt isn't even allowed to leave the house, not when he's too tight on Dumbledore's leash. If Albus gives the 'Yes' now there's nothing Black or Lupin could do about this. 

Instead of a firm rebuke, Black should have gotten, Albus merely hums with an indulgent smile. 

"We shall discuss this extensively at a later time." 

Severus refuses to sigh. If this is their only hope of survival, the only face of the war effort, then they're doomed. Severus is quite aware that Albus isn't divulging most things with the order members, nothing that would compromise his own plans anyway, and in a way, Severus is relieved that the man at least has some sense of logic left in him. He hates admitting it, but Albus Dumbledore was never the same after Grindelwald's defeat and imprisonment. Severus knows that even though he hadn't been alive to make the evaluation himself. 

He is the best showcase as to why 'love' is the most severe form of disadvantage. 

"Sir, has there been any news from Argent?" Bill. Severus's eyes flicker over to him, before he lifts his cup to take another sip. 

"None that I'm aware of yet. How was your mission in Devon, Douglas?" Smooth deflection, he thinks, watching the headmaster speak. 

##

When Severus gets up to leave, his back slightly hurts, and his shoulders are tensed. Molly tries persuading him to stay and have some meat pie but Severus sneaks past her into the fireplace, muttering a polite farewell. He has had enough of these fools already. He needs solitude. 

His fireplace blazes silently, by Severus's own design. He steps out and brushes his robes with both hands before flicking his wand to clean his face of soot. His eyes fall upon the cushion on his chair and Severus stills. 

Something isn't right. 

Severus knows it almost instinctively, his eyes dart from his slightly shifted chair to his ajar office door and his wand twitches. He casts a nonverbal silencing charm on his boots, and pushes his robes out of the way, and slowly, meticulously starts approaching his office. 

Out of his list of expected burglars, the person he finds is second to last, with Granger being the last person herself. Severus leans against the frame of his doorway and exhales an inaudible sigh of relief, staring at the back of the blond hair as his godson rummages through his personal Potions kit.

Before he's seen what Draco is doing, for a very small, split second of irrationality makes him wonder if Draco has finally let go of his bitter resentment and come to talk to him. But it doesn't last long.

After a few moments, Severus pushes himself away from the doorway and flicks his wand, lightening the fireplace and his torches, which startles Draco into almost dropping his armful of vials. 

Essence of Dittany, Salamander's numbing salve, and more than a dozen vials of blood replenishing Potions, all clink against each other in the boy's arms as he whirls to turn Severus. Severus knows each and every one of them by a simple glance, he's made them himself. 

"The Anise drops are in the other drawer, Draco," 

"Godfather," Draco doesn't look panicked or even peeved at having been caught, only startled. 

"Are you having fun, raiding my supplies?" He asks, crossing his arms. 

"No, as it happens. I found it particularly stressful," Draco also straightens up further. 

Severus hums in mock sympathy, narrowing his eyes to survey the calm grey eyes that regard him with a coolness that could only be the result of Narcissa's upbringing. Like cold fire, blue and blazing. 

"I see you've found what you were scavenging for," Severus nods at the vials in Draco's arms. "Are you opening an infirmary?" 

"I was going to leave you a note with the costs later, I'm not daft, Severus. I knew you would notice the missing items." 

"I see. And whilst knowing that I would know who the culprit was at first glance you decided to sneak in here instead of asking me for help." Draco was never one for foolishness. Far from it. 

"I don't need help," 

"Are my snakes giving you trouble? Did they attack you? You should know that you must report any injuries inflicted by other housemates to me immediately." Severus wouldn't be surprised if the students had been attacking Draco, but he  _ would  _ be surprised if Draco was injured enough to require all these potions. Draco was well enough equipped with both knowledge and power to defend himself. And he has no reason to restrain either and take the heat from a bunch of sheep minded students. 

"Severus…"

"Draco." Severus says without a beat. 

"Drop your attitude, Godfather, we're both familiar with the amounts of fucks you give." Severus sets his jaw at Draco's words. 

"Which doesn't add up to the amount that goes to your crudeness, Draco. Must you really?" 

"No, but I know it pisses you off," 

Severus rolls his eyes. "Put away your precious bundle, Draco. I need to make sure you aren't injured." 

Draco raises his eyebrows, regarding his godfather with a raised chin. "I'm fine, Severus." He says, in that pompous tone of voice that both know Severus hates. 

"No need to break a sweat. I shall send the money to you with Zabini's owl tomorrow. Or you could send me a list." 

"Draco, don't make me." He keeps his voice only mildly threatening. 

"Make you do what?" There is a knowing glint in Draco's eyes as if he's challenging him. Naive boy, Severus thinks. 

"I suppose it is in our best interests if we don't dwindle enough to find out. If you're being harassed, I need to know." 

"Oh," Draco starts, and the glint in his eyes becomes something more, "So, you would go through the same trouble you went through when my mother was being  _ taken care of?  _ Come off it, dear Godfather. You're being positively hilarious tonight." 

Severus just stares at him, pointedly ignoring the boy's sneer and his own twitching wand in his hand. He wouldn't stun Draco, if at all avoidable. He's taking the preemptive measures already, Draco isn't careless or a brute. He knows how to play the way only Slytherins do. 

There's no need for messy wand waving. 

"Maybe I wouldn't care enough," Which is a bold face lie, Draco knows that as well, but they both know what the boy needs to hear. "Your father entrusted your care to me regardless and I shall not betray his trust. Put away the vials, Draco." 

"They're not for me," Severus has already suspected as such. His godson wasn't one to put up with pain for long, some would call on his spoiled childhood, others would fault a weak backbone, but Severus knows better, it's not about aristocratic upbringing, it's only just… Draco. Nonetheless, Severus sighs. 

Interesting. A mysterious friend in need. Draco wouldn't risk his neck for just about anyone. Not by choice, anyway. 

"They blackmailed you into stealing?" 

Draco throws him a look of loathing and utter contempt. "Have you known me to be  _ blackmailed  _ by anyone, Severus?" 

"It's not too far of a stretch."

Draco tears his gaze away and stares at an invisible point over Severus's shoulder, "I'm helping them." He says. 

"So they are in need of medical help,"

His godson smirks, his gaze turning back to him. "Oh no, not at all. We're just doing this for shits and giggles. Tomorrow night we're raiding Flitwick's office."

"Sarcasm is the lowest form of intelligence, Draco." 

"Says the pot to the kettle." 

Severus cannot resist rolling his eyes again. "Your tongue is too sharp for your own good. Haven't you heard about the green tongued wizard? A crimson head is what he got in the end. In case you haven't figured the double meaning since your toddler years, it means that chatty brats get bloody necks." 

"Or a severed head," Draco adds, his voice smooth.

"I'm not too keen on the details. We both know you're not going to tell me who is this  _ friend  _ in need of yours. I wouldn't waste my time on that," 

"That's a smart choice." 

Severus narrows his eyes, but continues, "We both also know that if they had been able to show their face in the infirmary, you wouldn't even be here," 

"Then as you see, the purpose of this conversation has been rendered redundant. Good night, Godfather and may you have the most pleasant dreams." The sarcasm, if possible, has been upped a notch. Severus would almost be impressed if it were not directed at him. 

"You will be careful, Draco," Severus doesn't bleed a shred of softness in his tone. The boy needs to be ordered, not advised. "If I find you tangled in an undesirable situation, which puts you in danger, be it physical or mental, I will not hesitate to put a stop to it." 

Draco's eyes widen in artificial amusement, one so faked that the boy's face dramatically shifts features. "Yes Severus, you are very good at interventions," he exclaims "The last one delighted my mother so much she died on the spot."

"Regarding Narcissa--" This can't wait any longer.

"Do not speak her name." Draco cuts him off, and Severus is able to see the first dredges of real emotion in the boy's eyes and he spits venom, his expression once more cold and distant. "You're not allowed to do so." He turns away from him, the vials clinking again, "Good night Severus." 

"Don't break in like a hoodlum the next time, Draco," Severus isn't happy about how this conversation is ending, but he's aware that Draco isn't in the best position right now. "I shall provide the Potions if only you ask," 

"Goodbye." Draco doesn't grace him with a second glance as he leaves. 


	11. Let's Remain Calm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings for; explicit language, blood, gore. 
> 
> Next update Saturday, 18th July.

_ “Your 'let's remain calm and stay put' speech would be a lot more convincing if you weren't giving it in front of a pile of burning skeletons.” _

_ -David Wong _

...

Ron is tired of pretending his life is a chess game.

It's not that he hates the game itself. Chess isn't just a game to him, to begin with. It's fluid, morphing, filled with  _ endless  _ possibilities and endings. That's what it's all about, the strategy. Ron himself favors changing his own strategies constantly. Unpredictability  _ is  _ a sufficient strategy in itself. He never starts a game the same way he had before, not when he's playing with the same person anyway because if chess has ever taught him anything, it was that repetition was to be avoided at all costs. 

Ron sees the strategy in choosing sausages over pancakes at breakfast or cherry-picking which essays will keep his grades a dull constant that will give him an easy pass with the least amount of effort while he's occupied by other things. 

In many ways, Ron is very similar to his late uncle Morris, he was the one who taught Ron how to play, or in his words, 'How to think the proper way' when he was only a child. He remembers the day vividly when the man had dropped by, sitting perfectly still and wildly out of place in his three-piece suit with his legs crossed and eyes narrowed. Morris was waiting for Mum to get back from the markets with Ginny. That was the day Fred and George reenacted their old prank and turned Ron's favorite Chudley Cannon Keeper action figure into a tarantula. 

Ron had been terrified, screaming, and sobbing as he raced down the stairs, and Morris had been sitting right there, passively staring as the seven-year-old appeared in the living room. 

'Why are you crying, Ronnie?' Morris was frowning and Ron inconsolably toddled over to the man, rubbing his eyes. 

'Fred and George are mean!' He had said, opening his arms to be picked up by the other man. 

Morris had picked him up, managing the act with grace in spite of his official-looking manner. 'Then why do you play with them?' he had asked. 'You don't have to,'

'No?'

Morris had shaken his head. 'No. You needn't play with them if they are mean to you. Now be it your brothers or a friend.'

'But I have no one else to play with, Uncle Morris!'

'You don't always need a playmate, Ronnie. How about I show you how smart people play?'

'Smart?'

Morris had nodded, patiently settling Ron next to him on the sofa. 'Yes, like you and me.'

Then he had waved his wand to conjure a chessboard out of thin air and started setting the pieces and Ron's crying stopped, and the small boy watched, transfixed as Morris began explaining the game to him. His voice was patient and low the entire time, and by the time they were ready to play, Ron had all but forgotten about the spider in his room. 

Ron was nine years old when Uncle Morris passed away, and he hasn't stopped playing chess since. 

'Chess isn't a game, Ronald,' Morris had said the last time Ron had seen him before his death, he was in the hospital, had been for the last year, he looked just as composed as that day in the Burrow, even in a hospital gown. 'Chess is a lifestyle. An eye-opener, once you start seeing from a player's point of view… you never stop.'

Ron had brought his own set, a gift from Morris. He was the only one who visited anymore. His mom couldn't bear to watch her last brother succumb to a magical defect. A ticking bomb. 

'I'm a bad bishop, Ron,' he had said as he and Ron were setting their pieces. 'One that is blocked in by its own pawns, betrayed in a way, as they're blocking the way.' Ron's head had snapped up, and he was staring at Morris, the man looked thoughtful. 

'At least, I think that's how your mother thinks.'

'Mom doesn't play chess, ' Ron remembers how he started their last game, he began with the 'Dunst Opening ', his uncle's favorite. The Queen's knight was the first piece to move to a good square where it attacks the central e4 and d5 squares.

'Exactly, Ron.' Morris mirrored his opening. 'Chess isn't everyone's cup of tea, most choose ignorance,'

They do, and Ron has gradually come to learn why. Uncle Morris had been right, being a chess player didn't mean the game stopped once the chess set was away, it meant that Ron had been playing since. And he's getting tired of it. 

Meeting Harry Potter was a move from the Universe that Ron wasn't expecting, getting to know Harry Potter was a double attack that much to Ron's astonishment, knocked the whole set away, and started a brand new game. A game which is still ongoing, and will be for the rest of Ron's life, as long as he has Harry by his side. A game at which Ron severely screwed up last night. 

"Did he talk to you at all this morning?" Hermione asks, trying not to sound as timid as Ron knows she is. Neither of them is eating much breakfast at all. Hermione’s plate is empty, and Ron hasn't touched his oatmeal, which should be a cause of alarm by itself. They're staring at the doors. Harry might walk in any second now. 

And Ron needs to figure out his next move before he does. "We were too rough with him last night." 

Hermione shrugs, fiddling with her fork. "Were we, Ron? He knows how worried we are." 

"But we should have stopped when we saw him zoning out. You know he always does that when he's uncomfortable. I told you to stop. We should have." And instead of trying to keep placating the two, Ron had kept fanning the flames. 

The product of five years worth of observing, subtly picking up measly detail out of the other, five  _ years  _ of playing without stepping on Harry's toes even once, of being the best friends they could be, and now this. This is a blunder. 

He groans again, shaking his head as he remembers last night's disaster. Harry wasn't likely to forget those words any time soon, or at all. Ron isn't sure sometimes when it comes to Harry. 

Last night, Ron made a rookie's mistake. And he broke a promise. He needs to resolve both today, or he'll take the fall. One stumble isn't enough to lose a game, but with Harry, every single twitch counts. 

"We should apologise," Hermione finally says, waving a hand at Ginny to indicate that they're fine. Ron looks away from the doors. They don't have much time left until Charms begin, and Harry cannot afford to run late. He's behind on an essay already. 

Ron had run into him this morning, during shower time, but Harry hadn't said a word and neither did Ron, he gave Harry his space and rushed through the shower to meet up with Hermione before Harry came down. 

It takes him a while to register Hermione’s words.

"Yes." he replies, distracted by watching the gates. "Should." 

Hermione isn't impressed. "You're distracted." 

"Harry's not gonna be placated with an apology. We both know that." Or maybe he would be, but maybe he’d just pretend to be. Ron could never predict him. 

He starts tapping his foot against the stone tiles, impatiently stirring his oatmeal. Hermione waits for a beat and then sighs. "I'm sorry for the way we approached him, but you have got to admit Ron… something is going on. He's not telling us what. It might be harmful." 

Ron does know. He's not blind. 

"Are you familiar with the term 'blunder'?" he asks instead, the bouncing in his leg comes to an abrupt stop. 

Hermione flicks an eyebrow at him. "In the literal sense?" 

"No, the chess setting." Ron lets go of his spoon with a sharp clank. "Although they're mostly similar." She waits for him to elaborate. "We did the single worst thing we could have done with Harry last night. A catastrophic move that almost throws the game. That's a blunder. We've been doing this for five years, we know how self-conscious Harry is about himself,"  _ and we made it worse.  _

He picks up his spoon again with the same desolate note of failure playing in his head. His footing is still lost, and what's worse is that Ron doesn't know which player he lost last night. Whether it was a knight or a pawn. Blind chess. That's the term he's looking for.

She sighs again, "And we blew that away last night, I know." 

"We should have stopped." 

"Too late for that." 

"Is it though?" Ron still hasn’t looked up from his uneaten bowl of oatmeal.

"No, I meant he's here," 

Ron turns to look, and sure enough, Harry finally enters the Great Hall, his bag slung over one shoulder as he fiddles with the front of his robes. Without even looking where he's going, as if fueled by muscle memory, Harry dodges moving students and other tables and drops across them, not really looking as he reaches for his plate. 

Ron and Hermione only stare at him for a moment, before Hermione slowly reaches for a piece of toast herself. 

"Good morning," she says, buttering her toast as if it's the most vigorous of tasks. Ron stirs the spoon in his bowl. 

Harry doesn't answer, but that's not too odd for Harry. That did take them a while to get used to at first, especially when they were all awkward eleven-year-olds with no talent in socializing. But they learned, and it's easier now, to predict Harry's moods, almost as easy as eating the oatmeal he's avoiding. Ron keeps biding his time, watching Harry butter his toast, and Hermione only repeats herself once more. 

"Good morning," 

"Are you talking to me?" Harry finally looks up. 

Ron and Hermione exchange a glance. "Yeah. Good morning," Ron says. 

Harry holds their gaze. "Good morning," Then he turns back to his breakfast. 

Not too bad, Ron thinks. At least Harry is responding to them. And he doesn’t seem to be zoning out right now. Ron himself had been on the other side of the spectrum too many times to count. It's not something that Harry consciously does, at least, not that Ron's noticed. He has no idea what goes through the other boy's mind when he's  _ away,  _ but he also knows that when Harry doesn't want to be somewhere, he doesn't let his body hinder his wishes. 

Hermione and he are used to it now, they see the signs, the sudden stilling, the slightly glazed eyes, distracted distorted responses, sometimes none at all. 

Other times, when he's not doing his thing, Harry is just being… Harry. 

He's the sort of person who'd wake people up two hours after midnight to ask a ridiculous question, such as "Do fish blink?" Or something he had actually woken Ron up about when they were thirteen, "Do you think your Dad would like a flock of rubber ducks as a Christmas present or a single giant one?" 

The sort of person that Ron has heard of, but hadn't met before, the sort his mother mentioned Uncle Morris hanging out with. The loony type, that's what his mother called them before meeting Harry. 

Harry is an angel in her eyes though.

Ron and Hermione don't have an explanation for it yet. They don't talk much about it at all. They just follow the set of unspoken rules forged between the two of them reserved just for the other boy. An array of glances that varies from 'let's leave him alone' to 'He's distracted, you pair up with him during potions'. 

It used to be exhausting. It still is, but it's a part of life, a part of the game and Ron feels obligated to do it the same way he's obligated to breathe, even by his body's insistence. Even though he's tired of playing. 

"Are you in the mood to talk?" Hermione idly asks, munching on her toast. Harry shrugs. 

"What about?" 

Ron leaves his spoon in the oatmeal. "We both owe you an apology." 

"Yes, you do." Harry then proceeds to take a bite out of his toast, not really looking at them. 

In spite of the glum mood settling over the three of them, Ron exchanges a small grin with Hermione. Harry's bluntness was a refreshing attribute. Ron himself, personally never tires of it. 

"Right," he says, trying to hide his smirk. 

Hermione gives up on her toast and clears her throat, nervously brushing her hair out of her face as her fingers drum upon the tablecloth next to the empty plate. "We're sorry," she finally blurts out. "We shouldn't have--" 

"No," Harry cuts in. "You're apologising because I'm mad. Not because--"

"We mean it." Ron cuts him off. "Trust me, Harry. We went too far last night, we had no right to do that, to talk to you like that, or crowd you in that way. We were all tired and we all said things we shouldn't have."

Harry puts his tea down with a peculiar look in his eyes, the one Ron's noticed Harry having when he's trying not to look upset. "You don't… you're not entitled to  _ deal with me,  _ Ron. I've never asked that of you two. I know I'm not the easiest person to be around, but neither you or Hermione are forced to take care of me." 

Ron struggles to hide a wince. This is it. This is the root of their problems. Harry never asked them to look after him, Ron and Hermione never felt compelled to think too deeply regarding the matter, they've spoken about it, once or twice, in passing, but never in-depth. Never as the elephant in the room. Never as an issue.

Never about how much of a handful Harry is, because the truth was, that he really wasn't. He just had certain quirks, small things really, measly traits that before Ron even could get annoyed about them, most had been resolved already. He knows him now, he and Hermione probably know him a lot better than anyone else, the same way a muggle machine fixer is proud of knowing what he's built and knowing the kinks better than anyone else.

"Hey," Hermione says. "We only tolerate you as much you tolerate us, Harry. Ronald's right, we shouldn't have behaved like that last night. It was rude, and… unacceptable. We're sorry." 

"I acknowledge your apology." 

Ron frowns. This is going incredibly well. He wasn't expecting that. Of course not, one can never predict things when it comes to Harry. "How long 'till you accept it?" 

"We'll see," Harry shrugs and then gulps down his tea in a long swig. 

##

Draco knows he isn’t chopping the Passiflora leaves as finely as he should be, and Blaise has already reprimanded him about it twice. But that doesn’t make him do it any better. It’s not like he doesn’t know how to, it’s just that he doesn’t want to. 

Severus has been looking at him discreetly- or so he thinks- for the past twenty minutes. Doing his rounds but always coming back to hover near him. It’s driving Draco crazy, and it’s spiteful enough that it's making him brew his potion without making any efforts to salvage the results. He’s not sure if Severus would be keen on giving him an E or an O again after last night’s conversation, and if Draco were feeling better, he might even have felt guilty for bringing Blaise’s grade down, but he isn’t feeling better. He is feeling positively awful.

Draco had always loved Potions, and the class, the room, the whole environment, along with all the pleasant and not so pleasant smells of potions ingredients should have been soothing. But this too, brings back painful memories. While Draco has known Severus for as long as he can remember, it was his mother who had first introduced him to Potions. Severus had taught him most of the time, but Narcissa had liked to oversee his lessons. Draco still remembers the serene days, where his mother’s smile was only a glance away. 

And so Draco chops in a less than perfect way, something which would have made him sneer if he were the Draco of ‘Before’. 

His eyes flit across the room, landing on Potter and Weasley, bumbling about their cauldron. Draco had watched Potter when he had entered the classroom, or specifically, his hand. Only to find smooth, unscarred skin. 

For a second Draco wondered if last night had merely been a dream before realisation had dawned. Of course not, he knew last night had been real in the uncomfortable crispness of his school robes, the ones he never wore unless in emergencies. Glamours, probably. Draco is no stranger to them, after all. 

He also spies Potter favoring his right hand, even pulling away once when Weasley grabs it. So, Potter still hasn’t told his friends. Not that Draco had expected him to. 

A sharp pinprick of pain makes Draco look down again before he purses his lips. He has nicked his finger with the knife. And now a droplet of blood was seeping into his freshly chopped leaves. Blood could seriously affect the potion results, and however little he may care for his grades right now, Draco isn’t keen on getting to know what an additional ingredient might result in. 

With a sigh, he collects the leaves and tosses them away, earning a cocked eyebrow from Blaise, in response to which Draco just lifts his finger. Blaise shakes his head before he goes back to the cauldron. Draco restarts with new leaves, feeling Severus’ eyes on the back of his head. 

He wouldn’t have been so uncomfortable if they were the only pair of eyes on him. He can also feel Pansy staring at him now and then, and compared to Severus, she is not being discreet at all. Quite the opposite, really. At this rate, her potion is going to be more botched than Longbottom’s.

This time, he does an even worse job of cutting up the Passiflora leaves than before, uneven and large. And he  _ does  _ sneer looking at them, although he doesn't bother with correcting them even a little. Blaise seems resigned as he collects them and adds them into the potion, turning it into a deep purple instead of the desired lilac. Hm, not so bad. Not perfect, of course, but close enough.

A lot better than Pansy's black concoction. Or Longbottom’s solid block of… something. Potter doesn't seem to be doing  _ too _ bad either, his and Weasley's potion an unbecoming shade of hot pink. Not that Draco cares, even as Potter runs his hand through his hair before flinching and quickly putting it down, out of sight. The action was small, almost imperceptible, but Draco had been looking for it. 

Because some part of him is still wondering whether last night was merely a dream.

When Severus is done with his tongue lashing to Longbottom, leaving the boy near tears, he erases the board with a wave of his wand, and new instructions appear. The next steps for the potion. Decidedly harder than the first half. 

There are a few groans and moans around the class, only Granger looking even remotely happy at the prospect of a 'challenge' as she bustles about her worktable, much to, from what Draco can see, the Patil girl's annoyance. 

Draco just huffs and returns to his own potion. What did they all think? It's their O.W.L.s year, of course, Potions would be difficult. All classes would be. One would think that almost one month into attending said classes, they'd have realised that by now. 

"Don't you put those in the cauldron Draco," Blaise mutters, eyeing the mess Draco was making of the sunflower seeds. 

"They're good enough," Draco waves him off, dropping in the fistful of crushed seeds in the cauldron and Blaise scrambles to stir it counterclockwise as he counts the rounds. Severus is going to give him an O anyway. Probably. Blaise is lucky he has Draco as a partner. 

There’s a knock on the door only a minute later, and Draco turns to look in spite of himself, watching as little Creevy timidly makes his way to Snape and hands him a note as he points at Potter.  _ Discreet _ , Draco thinks. 

Draco follows Creevy’s finger back to Potter and sees the other boy intently staring at the duo, his face pale as Weasley desperately tries salvaging the goo in their cauldron. Potter is wringing his hands on the tabletop. 

“Potter,” Severus barks and Draco watches with narrowed eyes as Potter jostles in place, even though he shouldn’t have been startled in the slightest, he did seem to be cogitating quite deeply before, and now his eyes are clearer, and already he seems to be contemplating why could he be in trouble.

“The Headmaster has requested your presence. Leave now, and get your homework from Granger.”

Potter nods and stands, grabbing his bag as Creevy is exiting the classroom to run off to his own class. Draco drops his gaze then, and doesn’t wait to see Potter leave the dungeons, he doesn’t want Pansy to think that he is even remotely interested in Potter. 

He doesn’t like hand-feeding her information, if she has the audacity to openly skulk around him like an amateur then Draco still isn’t going to treat her like one. Blaise elbows him in the side and they turn back to their potions, and Draco spares a second to think of the vials clinking in his school bag. For the first time in a very long while, the Draco from ‘After’ is starting to feel useful. 

##

The kettle whistles, a loud, high shriek that is followed by a jet of steam and a bubbling sound. The kettle remains on the stove, whistling, burning up under the heat as the wind blows a gentle breeze to rustle the curtains. 

The window is open, only ajar, and a bowl of unmixed eggs is set next to a plate of raw bacon. The mixer is on the floor, casting a ghastly splash of egg yolks against the otherwise clean kitchen floor. The smell of ready toasts wafts around the room and frame a quaint picture of a lazy family breakfast. The clock on the wall is frozen and has been for a while. No way to tell the exact time. 

The adjoining living room is in the same state as the kitchen, unfinished, as if the painter had forgotten to add in the final finishing touches of his portrait, except that this isn’t a portrait and the telly is on. The images are rapid on the telly, but a deep voice is singing, accompanied by a jazz band in the background, couples can be seen haphazardly dancing to the tune. 

It looks all but spotless, the patio door is open as well, despite the chilly weather, and the fireplace crackles with a low burning flame, the aspen patterned rug is slightly shifted as if someone had run over to the patio and dragged the rug in the process. 

Even so, it all looks normal, untouched. And that’s exactly what’s wrong with it. The hallway is the focal point of this unnatural painting. The door is wide open and people can be seen, distraught, and gaping at the plumes of smoke that rise from the house, none of them actually look through the open door to see the real cause of horror. 

Three bodies lie in a pile, hapless, and drenched in blood, torn to bits and oozing a disgusting, stifling odor that could only be the result of rigor mortis, only a foot away from their door, Petunia’s bony hand is extended to the doormat, as if she intends to claw her way out of the dead pile of bodies, except she cannot do that because she’s just as dead as the rest of them. 

Harry cannot tell the difference between the other two bodies, Dudley and Vernon were roughly the same weight before Harry left the house in summer, and they’re too mutilated now to discern. Harry cannot do anything but stare, he’s fascinated. Horrified too. But mostly fascinated. 

“--Such a tragedy! Oh dear lord!” One of the neighbors is crying against a paramedic's chest who looks awfully uncomfortable as he pats the woman’s back. 

“Everything will be alright, ma’am,” 

“A gas leak? Should we evacuate too? Oh, Henry!” 

Harry lets their words run past his ears in a constant stream and walks closer to the Dursleys, which the muggles clearly cannot see, the wind brushes the disgusting scent of death right into Harry’s face, and he gags, his eyes stitched to Petunia’s hand. 

They’re dead. Beyond dead and Harry somehow cannot fit the enormous weight of that statement into his head. His muggle relatives aren’t alive anymore, and they don’t look as if they willingly went about to accept such a fate. To be fair, not too many people embrace death like an old friend, but this...This is heinous. 

What is more heinous is the first thing that Harry feels as he contemplates the bodies. Relief. 

Harry is relieved. 

Suddenly a rough hand seizes Harry on the shoulder and starts shaking him, wheezing into his ear like a stubborn fly in a hot summer afternoon. “Harry?” he hears as the wheezing clears. 

“I don’t understand, Albus,” the voice addresses the other person in the room. The room. Harry is in Dumbledore’s office. Not standing in the Dursleys house. “This has never happened before!”

Harry rapidly blinks to clear his vision. “This is shocking news," Albus Dumbledore replies, his voice tinged with concern. They both sound concerned. Harry brings a hand to fix his glasses and Sirius squeezes his shoulder. Harry can finally see the man, looking frantic as he searches Harry’s face for recognition.

“Should we be calling Poppy? Harry?” 

“I’m fine,” Harry tells him and shrugs the man’s hand off his shoulder. He is fine. 

“Harry, you do not look fine, I know this seems like shocking news, and upsetting--.”

“I’m not upset,” Harry is supposed to be disturbed by that revelation; but he isn’t. He’s relieved. He’s still relieved, even confronted by the thought-- image, of his dead relatives. That says a lot of things about him, most of which Harry avoids exploring. He needs to focus. 

“Harry, my boy, are you quite sure we needn’t call for Poppy? I’m sure a calming draught wouldn’t go amiss,” Harry shakes his head at Dumbledore again. He’s feeling a bit irritated at himself for zoning out in front of the two. He had never done so before today. 

“I’m fine,” he really is. He feels calm, and content, and maybe a bit high from his surreal experience, but otherwise he’s fine. 

“Alright, bud,” Sirius pats Harry on the head, and Harry has the sudden urge to flatten his hair down afterward. “So…”

“The Dursleys died,” Harry tells the room, voicing his thoughts, just making sure that he didn’t get  _ that part  _ wrong. Sirius curls his lips and then settles down in a chair set next to Harry’s, and Dumbledore takes his own seat again.

“Murdered, Harry.” the Headmaster gently reminds Harry, “The Death Eaters responsible for their murder and ten other muggles have left the dark mark hovering above the scene, a muggle mall, it seems.”

That shouldn’t be new information to Harry but it is. He must have been too out of it to register these tidbits, he sort of stopped listening by the time Sirius had blurted out that the Dursleys are dead. 

A public execution. 

That doesn’t seem fitting at all. Both Petunia and Vernon were fanatically private people, and for their deaths to be this public… It’s mocking them, the notion seems ridiculous since the death eaters actually knew neither and only targeted them because of their relation to Harry, but still. They’re sending a very clear message.

“The Muggles believe it to be a gas leak, and Obliviators were sent to the scene immediately,”

“Yes,” Harry pretends that he knew all that. 

“Listen, Harry, I know the Dursleys weren’t the best people around,” Sirius starts, shuffling in his seat to face Harry, “But I know that their deaths could be upsetting, I was actually quite upset when I found out about my Mother’s death… so if you wanted to talk—”

“I don’t,” Harry oddly is telling the truth. He’s alright. He feels alright, at least. 

“If you want me to take you back to Grimmauld place for a while to deal with this I’m sure Albus wouldn’t mind,”

Dumbledore inclines his head. “If that is required,”

“No,” Harry shakes his head. “No, I’m fine. I don’t need to go anywhere. I think I’m actually late to Transfiguration?” 

‘Liar,’ Imaginary Sirius calls him on it. Harry pointedly ignores the jab even though it’s true. He has a free period now, with the Ravenclaws, while the Slyhterin-Hufflepuff crowd is sitting through Transfiguration. 

Harry needs an out. He’s ashamed of himself, and he cannot even imagine Sirius or Dumbledore getting a whif of what’s going on in his head. They would be revolted.

“At least take the rest of the day off!” the real Sirius exclaims.

“No, no. I’m fine. Great.” Harry winces. That was a mistake. “Not great,” he scrambles to explain. “I mean...considering. But I’m fine.”

“And do you want to be present for the funeral? Get in contact with the undertaker?”

_ No _ , Harry wants to snap quickly, but what would it say about him? So he settles for a hesitant, “Um, I have school…?” 

“Harry,” Sirius begins, his voice gentle, “Albus will let you leave school to attend a  _ funeral. _ ” he places his hands on Harry’s shoulders, looking at him with concerned eyes. 

“I will,” Dumbledore says, but then he continues, “But you don’t have to attend the funeral, Harry. I know it must be difficult.” 

“Yeah,” Harry says,  _ good excuse _ , “I don’t want to.” 

Sirius still looks worried, but he just nods and pulls Harry in close for a hug. Harry hesitates for a split second before wrapping his arms around Sirius. When they pull away, he has a soft smile on his face as he looks at Harry, “You’ll be okay, right? You really don’t want to come to Grimmauld Place with me?”

“I’ll be fine,” Harry’s eyes flick over to Dumbledore, who is looking at them with a grim face. He startles a little when Fawkes gives a low trill, and looks around for the phoenix, spotting it perched atop the bookcase. 

“I think,” Harry turns away from the bird, not meeting Sirius’ eyes anymore, “I think I should go to Transfiguration now.” 

Sirius’ frown is back in place, and he doesn’t let go of his shoulders for a few moments, before nodding once and taking a step back. 

But just as Harry is leaving for the door, he realises something. The dark mark was seen over the mall, then- “Does that mean Voldemort is out in the public now? You said they left… the dark mark hovering over the bodies.” 

Dumbledore gives a sigh and leans back a little in his chair, looking weary. “Yes Harry, even the Ministry cannot ignore them anymore.”

_ ‘So, I won’t be called a liar anymore?’  _ He wants to ask, but he knows how it sounds so instead he says, “What does that mean for us, sir?”  __

"We're not sure yet," Sirius interjects instead, his eyes pruned with concern for Harry. He already looks so worn. Harry has the decency to feel a bit ashamed of causing the man this much pain and stress. 

"But don't you worry at all, Harry. This is the safest place for you," Sirius hugs him again and Harry lets him, mostly for his benefit than Harry's. "We'll keep you and the others as safe as we can." 

"That's great," Harry stifles a wince again. He really should stop using the word 'Great' altogether. 

"Are you sure you don't want to come back with me? It'll be only Moony and me, you can have your privacy, come back when you're feeling better." 

"No, I'm alright, Sirius. Really I am. Was that… all you were going to tell me about?" 

As if there was anything even slightly more jaw-dropping than this. 'Harry your relatives are dead, and also we're banning you from Quidditch indefinitely. ' or something as equally ridiculous as that. 

"No, that was all." Albus Dumbledore gives Harry a peculiar glance and Harry avoids his gaze, feeling overwhelmed by being in the man's eyes after weeks of being ignored. He fidgets in Sirius's arms and the man finally lets him go, slightly smirking. 

"Just like you were as a baby," he says. Harry blinks. 

"Huh?" 

"You were a wriggler," Sirius briefly explains with a small chuckle and then awkwardly trails off, clearing his throat as Harry and the Headmaster stare at him. 

'Ugh the nerve of this guy,' Imaginary Sirius rolls his eyes, standing shoulder to shoulder with the real Sirius, except he's in a Hawaiian shirt, holding a beer bottle, and this Sirius looks as if he hadn't been sleeping in almost a month. 

"Right," Harry pats the man on his arm, and then hesitantly gestures at the door. 

"Can I? I really don't want to miss a class. The O.W.Ls are already taking a toll on us," 

"Yes, yes, of course, Harry." 

"Just remember… You can write to me at any time, Kiddo. Remus and I basically don't have a life, so yeah, don't worry about stupid notions like bothering us or anything."

“Okay,”

“And uh… I actually have a gift, waiting for you,” Sirius looks very self-conscious all of a sudden. “The next time you’ll be coming over. It could be sooner than Christmas if you liked. Any time-.”

“Not any time, Sirius,” Albus gently interrupts. “He has school,”

The man winces and then rubs his neck. “Well yeah, maybe Christmas then. Write to me,”

"Right," Harry says again with a gulp, exchanges a manly handshake with his godfather, and nods at Dumbledore before power walking out of the office as calmly as he can manage. 

He makes it to the stairs when he realizes that he has no intentions of joining the rest of the class or dealing with any of the messy things he's supposed to be dealing with. He could head to the dorms, but Ron would find him in a heartbeat, and Harry cannot deal with his friends right now. He cannot even deal with himself at the moment. 

What even is he? To be so relieved, even comforted at the sight of his dead relatives! Everyone has their own can of worms, their own skeletons in the closet, meanwhile Harry feels as if he's the can filled with worms, in the most literal sense. Something slimy, and disgusting. Something must be wrong with him, severely wrong with him. 

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia are dead. Dudley is too. There goes three names added to the list of people Harry's killed. These three, he didn't even love that much. 

Harry steps down the stairs and contemplates his lack of guilt. He isn't guilty for not loving them, he's sure that they didn't love him all that much either. Harry still remembers his days in the cupboard, trapped in with spiders, hungry, and yearning, yearning for a life Dudley was living just two feet away from him. 

Harry is still in a way jealous of his cousin. Not because of his spoilt upbringing or obesity. Well, former obesity, he's a sack of bloody flesh now, but that's… besides the point. Harry is jealous of the way Aunt Petunia sang him to sleep when they were too small to talk, he's jealous of Uncle Vernon teaching him how to ride a bike.

Because if Dudley gets to have lullabies and a bike, then he still had more than Harry ever will, even in death. 

"You slimy can of worms," Harry rolls his eyes at himself and finally reaches the end of the stairs, completely avoids the nosy portraits, and heads to the girl's bathroom. At least he knows he'd have a moment of solitude there, to do anything that resembles grieving. 

If the Dursleys' death has proven anything to Harry, it's only one thing; people don't have to love him in order to die for him. All it takes is knowing him, and that by default means the entire population of Hogwarts and the Order of the Phoenix, and Merlin knows who else. 

When Harry enters the bathroom, Myrtle isn't there, but he's not alone. Draco Malfoy stands, casually leaning against a wall and cocking an eyebrow at Harry as if he was late. 

Is Harry late to something he isn't aware of? 

"You have Transfiguration," he says and Malfoy only looks at him, his eyes narrowed as if he's reading Harry like an open book. "You aren't in Transfiguration." 

"You’re regressing. Stating the obvious now, are we?," Malfoy uncrosses his arms, Harry frowns at him. He really isn't sure if he wants to deal with Malfoy right now. He needs to get rid of the mixture of feelings racking up a storm in his chest. He needs to scrub the relief away from his skin. 

"I knew you'd come here," Malfoy says yet again, and Harry just watches him, transfixed and puzzled by Malfoy's presence. He doesn't look upset, he doesn't look disheveled or as if he were crying. He looks triumphant, smug. Harry has never seen Malfoy with that peculiar look before. 

"Am I being that predictable?" Harry heads to a basin and turns the taps, he'd feel better after washing up a bit, he knows that splashing his face with water will start the waterworks going, and he'll finally feel a bit miserable after crying, if only for the sake of crying and not the Dursleys. 

"Not really," Malfoy is incredibly polite today, Harry notices. No insults have been exchanged so far. No sarcastic jabs. He's probably waiting for Harry to give him the perfect opening. "I'm just that good an observer." 

"Right," the water is hot and it stings Harry's cheeks and the tips of his fingers, but he splashes his face once more, impatiently waiting for the familiar sting to form behind his eyes. 

"Did Dumbledore have you rubbing your face in a mud pit?" when Malfoy asks this, Harry almost jumps right out of his skin. The bastard is standing right next to him! Harry didn't hear him approach from behind, he was too busy trying to cry. 

"What?" he asks, and he tries not to sound as breathlessly startled as he feels. 

"You're washing your face quite vigorously. You should at least take your glasses off." 

Oh. His glasses. Harry almost hadn't noticed the mottled spectacles before Malfoy pointed them out. He brings a hesitant hand and rips them off his face, then runs his hand under the steaming rush of water once more. His hands turn pink from sheer hotness, and Harry lets them. 

Malfoy is still watching him, much to Harry's bafflement. "What are you doing here?" 

"If I remember correctly Potter, you and I had a deal the other night." 

It takes Harry approximately seven seconds to realize what the blond is talking about. 

"The detention doesn't start now," 

The other boy shrugs. "I know." Then he curls his lips at Harry's pink hands. 

"But look at what you're doing to those hands, Potter, really," 

Harry snatches his hands out of the steaming water and frowns at Draco. No matter how hard he tries, there's something about Draco that Harry cannot figure out. Something that feels so obvious, right on the tip of his tongue, and yet, Harry cannot put his finger on it. 

"Potter, do you hate your hands that much? I know I would have hated those gangly fingers and bitten nails too, but really… boiling them isn't the answer." 

"What are you doing here Malfoy?" 

"I want to know what Dumbledore told you," 

Harry blinks, "I'm sorry?" 

"If the man actually disrupted a class to call you into his office it must have been important. You certainly looked startled, so you weren't made aware of a possible meeting beforehand. Conclusion; Dumbledore came into possession of a bout of information he couldn't sit on and it somehow involved you. Further concluding, it's either got to do something with Umbridge or You-Know-who." Harry blinks. Well, supposedly it wasn’t  _ quite  _ that hard to figure out. 

"And what in the world makes you think I'll tell you?"

Draco shrugs. "You won't. I'll tell myself. You're still going to that hag's detention, aren't you?" 

Harry stays silent. 

"There's my answer. Right there. Chances are Dumbledore wouldn't have allowed that woman to teach a class of second years at the moment if he knew." He’s got a triumphant look in his eyes that Harry wants to wipe out, but isn’t really in a position to care about. 

"I don't want to talk about this. And with you of all people,” he huffs instead, turning back towards the mirror, scrubbing at his face. 

"So it was about You-know-who. I wonder what could be urgent enough for him to drag you to his office in the middle of a class." Malfoy’s voice is closer now, and Harry pauses for enough of a moment to see that he has moved closer. 

"You might want to shut up now." 

"You don't want to talk about it." No shit, Sherlock. Harry grits his teeth, why can’t Malfoy leave him alone. 

Harry turns the taps off. "No. Not with you anyway." 

"If you wanted to talk to Granger and Weasley, they'd already be here." 

"That does say a lot about me at the moment," 

"Listen, Potter, I have no desire to know about your secret meeting with Dumbledore. We had a deal, and I'm sticking to it." Harry loosens his jaw enough to answer calmly, drying his hands with a quick spell. 

"By skipping Transfiguration." 

"I'll study here, while you're ripping your hand open." 

"But you skipped because you wanted to find out about the meeting,"

Malfoy scowls. "Don't misunderstand me, Potter. I skipped because I wanted to, I came here because I wanted to play. And I did, all things considered." 

"So I'm a game," Harry says flatly, still not looking away from the mirror. The dark circles under his eyes look like bruises. 

"Isn't everyone?" Malfoy is now leaning against a wall casually, his arms crossed at his front, wand dangling in one hand. There is a smirk playing on his lips.  _ Of course,  _ he thinks everyone is a game. 

"You know what… whatever. Do whatever you like, I'll have to be ready for my detention in ten minutes, I really don't have the time to deal with you." Harry finally turns away from the mirror, stalking towards the door. 

"I'm offended, Potter. Truly," Malfoy calls out as Harry reaches the door. 

Harry doesn't answer him as he walks out of the bathroom, frowning. Maybe he should just go ten minutes early. Umbridge couldn't possibly complain about  _ that,  _ right?

With a sigh, he lets the glamour on his hand drop as he knocks on the door of her office, his heart already sinking. Why couldn't  _ she  _ have been one of the people who died? He certainly knows her, like every other person who died because of him.

When he enters the room, she is sitting beside her desk, a self-inking quill, and a stack of papers in front of her. She looks at him and gives him her sweet, poisoned smile. "You're not too late today, Mr. Potter. Looks like my detentions really are having an impact." 

The other Sirius is back, standing behind her and making strangulation gestures around her neck. Harry eyes the clock. One minute past five. The strangulation gestures become more frantic and murderous. But all he does is give a small, polite looking nod. 

"Have a seat," Umbridge says, turning back to her papers as she corrects them. Her quill makes a grating, loud scratching noise on the paper as she scrawls over it. 

He trudges over to his regular chair, doing his best not to sneer at her. He wonders if anyone else has sat here, writing with the cursed quill, drawing blood from their own bodies to satisfy this toad's sadistic urges.

Or perhaps she reserves this special punishment just for him. He wouldn't be surprised, since when had he ever been normal, after all?

"I heard about your relatives, Mr. Potter." She says down the quill, and steeples her fingers, looking at him intensely, "This must be a very hard time for you." 

Harry blinks. He found out about the Dursleys only an hour ago and she knows? News certainly travels with the speed of light in this place. He's as taut as a bowstring, feeling like he'd snap at any moment. Surely, if she knows, she won't let him remain in detention any longer? 

Harry scoffs, who is he trying to fool? Of course, she will. 

"But," she interrupts his thoughts, "You must know the value of routine and everyday activities. They should not change merely because of one unfortunate event. It will keep you distracted." Umbridge gives another small smile, dripping with so much venom Harry wonders why her lips aren't burnt with the sheer acidity of it. "And I'm here to help you with that, Mr. Potter. As an attending student of a prestigious school such as Hogwarts, and me as your Professor, your well being is my concern. So, can we start with today's detention?" 

Harry has been trying very hard not to gape at her in incredulity. Does she honestly believe all the crap that comes out of her mouth? How is carving words into a student's hand, making them almost bleed to death, considered showing  _ concern?  _ Harry is very tempted to go with imaginary Sirius' suggestions. Which has been getting more creative the more she spoke. Death from blood loss after cutting out her tongue doesn't sound as horrific in his head as it would have, once. But now everything is dulled. Except for his hatred for this woman. 

The only outward reaction he shows, though, is an almost polite enough “Yes, ma’am.” 

Umbridge bares her teeth into another one of those godawful smiles and waves a hand to gesture at the blasted quill resting on the desk. “Get to it, then. No dawdling.” And then, finally, instead of staring at him, she returns to her papers. 

The soft scratches of Harry’s quill against the paper is nothing compared to the harsh ones Umbridge makes, almost as if she’s trying to cut straight through the paper. And it’s grating on Harry’s nerves. The pain is distracting, but her presence is so outrageously revolting that it nearly drowns out everything else. 

After a while, the parchment, his hand, and the quill are so bloody Harry almost can’t make out the words anymore. Still, he writes, and still, his skin splits, over and over and over. 

His eyes are blurring by the time Harry turns his eyes towards the clock; and, assuming it’s showing the correct time, or at least something near it, it’s twenty minutes past eight. He blinks, he has been here for over three hours now. He’s sure he’d pass out again today. 

Harry clenches his jaw and tries to ignore imaginary Sirius shouting insults in his ear at Umbridge, very creative ones. Harry is almost sure he’s never heard some of them before. His suggestions sound so tempting, and Harry has to tighten his grip around the quill to try and ignore him, bringing tears to his eyes which he furiously blinks away. 

'Molten lava,' the man shrugs. 'It's gonna work like a charm.' 

Oh for Merlin's sake, Sirius. 

'I'm not saying you cannot pull it off, Kiddo, it's just getting a bit frustrating. It could be lava, a wire. Hell, you could do it with the quill!'

"Mr. Potter?" Harry almost jumps.

"Yes?" 

She smiles at him. "You're free to leave. I'm letting you go a bit early today, as I'm sure you've noticed, my condolences for the loss of your relatives."

"Thank you, ma'am." Early, Harry almost snorts, breaking his blank expression. It’s almost curfew. Hell, with her clocks, he is never sure. It could be past curfew for all he knows. He doesn’t dare check the time on his wristwatch in front of her. Almost throwing the Quill back on the desk, he stands up, picking his bag and makes for the door. 

Soon, he is stumbling through the corridors, down to the girl’s bathroom. There is also a sense of uneasiness as he walks, which has nothing to do with his throbbing headache, blurry vision, and the hand which feels like it’s on fire. Will Draco even be there? If not, he really doesn’t want to pass out in the bathroom again, he’d rather do it on his bed. He’s fairly certain he’d be able to cast a brief glamour on himself, and he doubts Ron and Hermione are going to try and needle him again. 

His conditions worsen as he walks; staggers, really. He has to shake his head several times to see, and for one terrifying moment he almost wonders if he’s going blind. ‘ _ I won’t be able to play Quidditch’ _ is his first irrational thought. Would he see just pitch black? Or would there be colours? Would it be permanent? Harry doesn’t recall ever seeing a blind wizard, but then again, wizards still have to wear corrective glasses. Dumbledore himself wears one. 

His train of thought is interrupted when he stumbles again and throws out his mauled hand to balance himself, stifling a strangled yell as pain flares up not only in his hand but up to his elbow. He hisses, peeling his hand away from the wall, grimacing at the bloody handprint. Huffing for breath, he pulls out his wand to clean it up. He can’t just go around leaving blood on the walls. It reminds him of his second year, with those writings on the walls. Although it had been chicken blood at that time. 

Right. Draco. He is probably waiting for him in the bathroom. He better be. Because Harry isn’t sure how long he can last. Doing that spell taxed him, and he feels like crawling to the bathroom would be easier than walking. 

His breath is shallow as he approaches the familiar and somewhat comforting doors of the bathroom, vision swimming, and head spinning. Before he can open the door, though, they fling open themselves, revealing Draco Malfoy. Who freezes at the sight in front of him. Harry probably doesn’t make a very pretty picture right now. 

But before either of them can say anything, Harry’s vision tunnels, greying out completely, and he collapses. 

Silver. That’s what he’d like to see if he were to be blinded. 

A perpetual pool of silver.


	12. Loss of Power

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings for; language, blood, mild implied/referenced torture. 
> 
> *You guys might have noticed that this story is now part of a series. More on that at the end!
> 
> Next update Saturday, 2nd August

_“Power does not corrupt. Fear corrupts... perhaps the fear of a loss of power.”_

_― John Steinbeck_

...

Potter is late.

Or perhaps he isn't even coming. Of course, he isn't, why would he bother? Why does _Draco_ bother? Especially after their earlier conversation. The vials in his robes sit heavily as he ponders about his predicament. Is he really waiting in an abandoned girl’s bathroom with stolen potions waiting to heal The-Boy-Who-Lived after blackmailing the boy into helping him?

Something is tragically wrong with Draco.

He’s being stood up. It takes a lot to be stood up by someone like Potter, especially after humiliating himself by offering to actually help the daft prat, but here he is, idly glancing around and huffing in irritation.

Draco, despite his simmering rage, is quite content to leave Potter to have his laugh over him, this is entirely his loss, Draco loses nothing by Potter bleeding to death in an abandoned corner, in fact, it might even help his cause by alleviating the pressure of housing the dark lord in his home.

Potter had said that his detention would end after an hour, two at most, Potter had also said that his punishments sometimes went past curfew. Draco frowns, fingers idly running up and down his wand as he twirls it, almost absentmindedly. Maybe Potter had been exaggerating, but this is just Draco giving him the benefit of the doubt, and trying to convince himself of the wavering but continued survival of his wounded pride.

It’s nine now. Curfew time. Maybe he will wait ten more minutes to see if Potter turns up. He hasn't really figured out why is he even doing this in the first place. When discovery means certain torture and probable death. Discovery by certain individuals, at least.

And that thought is enough to make him abruptly stand, vials clinking at the sudden movement. He won’t wait around for Potter forever, if he wants to suffer, let him be.

He pulls the door open, a scowl on his face, which falls off as quickly as it had come, jaw slackening at the sight in front of him. Before he can even process what he is seeing, his hands are one Potter full. He stumbles under the sudden weight, but quickly regains composure, taking a second to lock the door behind him as he props Potter up by the wall again.

“Potter?” he murmurs, poking the boy’s cheek. “Potter!”

Has he passed out again? Potter looks dangerously pale, and his hand seems almost bloodier than usual. Merlin, how can one lose this much blood and still be alive.

Harry Who Refuses To Die Potter, that is.

Draco quickly rolls up Potter’s sleeves, wincing at the sight of blood and how his robe seems to be sticking to the cuts. Taking a damp cloth, which he had had the foresight to prepare, he quickly wipes away the blood. But even as he cleans away the blood, more seeps out of his cuts.

Pursing his lips, Draco pulls out the vial of dittany, taking another cleaner cloth to swiftly dab it over his cuts. The blood seems to be slowing down now, so he quickly swipes it one more time and applies another layer of dittany over it. Potter’s hand is cold as he grips it. Cold and clammy. And he still looks too ashen for comfort.

Draco quickly unshrinks a small bowl he had brought with him, and dumps the Murtlap essence in it, before gently lowering Potter’s hand into it. He is still disturbingly still, too.

Draco pats his cheek again, “Potter,” his pats get slightly rougher as Draco starts panicking a little, “Potter, wake up.”

He uncorks one vial of Blood Replenishing potion and tips it into Potter’s mouth, urging him to wake up and fucking swallow because if he chokes to death Draco is _not_ taking any responsibility.

Finally, _finally,_ Potter lets out a groan, turning his head away from the vial at his mouth, but Draco firmly plants a hand against his face, holding his head in place as he urges him to drink, more furiously than before.

Potter finally opens his mouth, probably too tired to protest, and Draco has a brief flash of concern. If it weren’t Draco with him right now, anyone could have given Potter anything. Most probably poison. And Potter could have done nothing.

The scarier thought is that _he, Draco_ himself could dose Potter with anything at this moment and Potter wouldn’t be able to do a thing. He could easily deliver him to the dark lord, be done with it, have his father back, his home, his everything.

To what point? His mind argues. The Dark Lord killed his mother. Draco would rather die than serve that monster.

Scary thoughts. Dangerous thoughts.

Draco shakes his head to dispel the rebelling words as he pulls the now empty bottle away from Potter’s face. Who seems slightly more lucid than before.

“Wass’at,” he slurs. Draco gives him a half-hearted sneer as he pushes another vial against his lips.

“Drink, Potter.”

Potter is frowning now, his eyes half open and glazed over. “It’s just a blood replenisher, Potter. Surely, even someone as incompetent in Potions as you should know what it is supposed to do.”

Potter looks resigned as he opens his mouth, bringing his left hand up to steady the vial as he drinks it. The colour is finally returning to his face. He still looks too pale, but at least his skin doesn’t have that sickly grey pallor anymore.

Then he looks back down at his injured hand, and his mouth opens a little at the sight of his submerged hand. He looks like he wants to snatch his hand away, but is reluctant, or perhaps even too fascinated by it to do so.

“Murtlap essence, Potter. Should be helping with the pain.”

Potter looks up at him then, and his eyes are clearer now. He gives a small nod.

“Well,” Draco is starting to feel the tiniest bit awkward now, so he pulls out a roll of gauze. “I think we should wrap it up now.”

Potter doesn’t say anything as Draco takes his hand out of the now murky liquid. At the first touch of the gauze against his cuts, he hisses a little, and Draco makes sure his next movements are slower and gentler. Not much, though. He doesn’t care as long as Potter stays alive, after all.

Draco can feel Potter staring at him. It's unnerving. Impossible to ignore. As if he’s trying to see right through him and digging out his deepest, darkest secrets. And there are plenty.

"You were leaving," Potter says, and Draco hums, noncommittal.

"Well, you certainly know how to make an entrance,"

There's silence once more. Draco doesn’t pause in his careful movements around Potter’s hand, holding it steady with a firm grip around the wrist.

"My relatives are dead," Draco pauses.

"What?" He hadn’t meant for his voice to come out like that, squeaky and high.

"That's… that's why Dumbledore called me in his office. They died." Draco still hasn’t resumed wrapping the gauze. Potter is still staring at him with those eyes. 

"They just died?"

"Murdered. I'm an orphan now. Well, I was an orphan before, but I guess now… it's really official." The flat, emotionless way Potter speaks is disturbing. His face is blank too. But his eyes, they keep on staring and staring and staring, an intense unidentifiable emotion behind them.

"You seem awfully composed for someone whose relatives are dead." Draco finally makes his hand move, turning the gauze several times around his hand before cutting off the rest of the roll. He very pointedly refuses to think about how much of a wreck he was, still is over his mother’s death. That was for the Draco from ‘Before’ to deal with.

"I know,"

"You should talk to someone,"

"Right,"

They’re quiet for a few moments as Draco quickly applies a small, weak sticking charm to the bandage. _Hm_. Not as good as he could, but better than his last messy attempt.

"I cannot go back to the common room with this," Harry holds up the bandaged hand. "Ron and Hermione—"

"You won't have to, the salve just has to sit on the cuts for an hour so you won't die of infection." Honestly, does Potter _never_ pay attention in classes?

"Thanks," Potter murmurs, relaxing against the wall.

"Don't do that,"

"What?" Potter asks, brows furrowing.

"Don't thank me, Potter. I don't owe you anything, and you don't owe me anything. I'm blackmailing you. At least try sounding like you're miserable."

"But you're helping me," Potter doesn’t even open his eyes.

"You are hopeless. Beyond hopeless at this, Potter." Draco grumbles as he vanishes the sullied liquid and shrinks the bowl down.

"If you say so, Malfoy," he is now cradling his right arm against his chest. Draco peers at him, trying to make out if he is in any pain, but Potter’s face is relaxed.

"About your… relatives, Potter. Muggles, right?" Draco ventures.

"You don't have to… you're not entitled… to talk to me. I'm fine. Great." Finally, Potter cracks his eyes open, looking at him with an odd expression.

"You're great," Draco repeats, his voice dry and his eyebrows quirk.

"Not great. My relatives are dead. Fine is more socially acceptable." Well, at least Potter knows what’s socially acceptable.

"When is your next detention?" he asks instead. Draco knows how to choose his battles.

"She didn't say. She actually let me leave early because of the Dursleys’ death." Draco looks at Potter incredulously, past curfew is early? But then the rest of the sentence registers.

"She knew about it?"

"I guess she heard Dumbledore talking or something." Draco’s sure she didn’t. Dumbledore is a great wizard, even the Dark Lord knows it. He won’t be careless about such information.

"Still sounds strange," Draco murmurs, straightening up and dusting off his clothes. He cannot afford to ruin a second set of school robes.

"Strange,” Potter gives a small, hollow smile, making Draco frown, “That about sums up my life."

##

He stays for fifteen additional minutes after Potter leaves, it’s ridiculously late, especially since Potter showed up so late, but Draco is too cautious to be seen with the other boy in any shape or form. So he generously offers Potter the leaving slip and settles back on the ground, watching Potter disappear from view.

His mind has a lot to catch up on. Draco is painfully aware of how Potter seems to be surprising him on every turn, he’d expect him to do something and Potter completely disheveled every possible expectation by doing the opposite, or offering something entirely new to the table. Potter is supposed to be predictable. It is disorienting. Off-putting. And Draco doesn’t like it.

It’s derailing his tactics, not that he’d show them, of course, but Draco knows that in order to have the upper hand on Potter in this strange dance that they’re doing now he needed to get his act together. Potter’s relatives were dead, he was still being tortured by a maniac and he was just… Not Potter.

Draco mulls over this as he gathers his empty vials into his school bag, and vanishes the bloodied rags, he thinks about how Potter is nothing like he had thought he’d be in the last few years.

He heaves his bag over his shoulder and walks out of the bathroom, and then almost groans, only smothering it by the thinnest thread of will. He doesn’t let his steps falter as he walks, keeping one eye discreetly at the shadow tailing him not so discreetly.

He walks, feigning ignorance for about two floors down, and turns a corner and waits instead of going forward, and when she turns too, he speaks, grabbing her forearm to keep her from bolting, delighting in the small spark of satisfaction when Pansy jumps. This conversation has been long overdue.

“Haven’t your mothers taught you not to spy on people, Parkinson?”

To her credit, and Draco is not above giving credit where it’s due, just not aloud, she regains composure remarkably well, although she still looks slightly disgruntled, “Hasn’t yours taught you not to sneak around late at night?”

“Sorry to inconvenience,” Draco isn’t sorry in the least.

“You’re not forgiven.” she huffs at him, firmly trying to pull her forearm out of his grasp.

“Why are you spying on me?”

“I’m not.” Well, there goes her composure.

She was easy, Draco had known her weak spot twenty minutes after first meeting her when they were seven. He knows exactly where to push, really push. Strike for the kill. “This is ungraceful,” he drawls. “I thought you should know.” he shrugs with a crafted nonchalance shrug. “Pathetic even, for any daughter that was raised by Valentina and Selene Parkinson. I suppose you would know all about that,”

“Stop talking,” her jaw is clenched so tight she can almost hear her teeth grinding.

“Then stop stalking me,”

“I have my duty,” she says, looking like she opened her mouth with some difficulty, “and you have yours.” she looks strikingly like Valentina whenever her face hardens, the harsh cheekbones and the slightly pruned nose, and narrowed black eyes, but as far as Draco is aware, that’s where the resemblance ends.

‘She’s been brought up too softly,’ his father had said once, to his mother when he thought Draco was asleep. It was long after the party was over, and Draco had dosed in the library, in front of the flickering fireplace as his parents conversed about the guests.

‘She is only eight, Lucius,’ Draco could practically hear his mother rolling her eyes. ‘I think Valentina would wait a few years before handing her a dagger and letting her into the wild,’

Lucius hummed. ‘It’s not her, It’s the other one. Selene is too gentle with the child. Valentina seemed barely involved. The knight is laying low,’

‘We all have our own demons, my love. You for instance, gossip too much,’ she clicks her tongue, a smile evident in her voice and Draco had slumbered for the rest of the night. Undisturbed.

“Why won’t you be honest with yourself?” Draco sneers now. “Do you really think that you could ever in any capacity, live up to your mother’s reputation in the dark lord’s eyes? Either of them? He doesn’t, and I bet this is fun for him.”

“As if you’re doing any better yourself, Malfoy.”

It has taken spending so long in the ‘After’ not to stiffen. He makes himself give her a nasty smile, and lets her arm go, taking a step back and straightening up. 

“You pretend to know things about me that you don’t. Sloppy work, Pansy.”

“I know _someone_ must have screwed up in that fucked up family of yours, or else our lord wouldn’t have granted me with this mission,”

She says ‘mission’ as if it’s a good thing, something to be proud of, and perhaps, once, Draco would have thought that too, would have probably taken that as an honour. Not anymore, not really. Somewhere, in the corner of his mind that’s not too numb, he pities her a little. He is waiting, almost. For her reckoning.

Draco chortles. “Trust me, Pans, he didn’t entrust you with anything, he tossed it at you for his own carnal amusement and your mother’s embarrassment.”

“You’re going to regret saying those words one day.”

“And you will never get to call yourself ‘Valentina Parkinson’. The Dark Lord’s feared knight… isn’t that the most tragic accomplishment of your life?”

“I’m of the same blood,” she mutters, almost as if she wants to convince herself in addition to Draco.

“But you couldn’t be worth more than a mudblood living in muck," he hisses, leaning closer to her than he ever wishes to be. “At least your mother knows exactly what role she serves. The Dark Lord’s Knight in his elaborate game of chess.” her breath hitches, and Draco carries on. “We're all just pawns to him. Me. You. Cedric Diggory. My mother.” He purses his lips, his jaw clenching to stop himself from giving anything away. Pansy doesn’t know. Nobody knows. Draco should be more careful.

“Do you see?” he mutters, but she doesn’t reply.

He doesn’t wait for her response, turns around and strides away instead, his stomach churning a little unpleasantly at the thought of the words that rang too close to home, even for him.

##

"That would be enough, Minister," says a man in his thirties, with honey-colored hair and dark red robes, almost the shade of blood. Both men look rather small in the imposing office, Fudge looks comically tiny behind his desk, pretending to arrange papers as cameras flash for the interview.

John Wallwind twirls his wand and the charmed camera stops. Even magic cannot cure some images. Minister Fudge smiles at him with a force that prunes his eyes and gestures at John to take a seat.

"Please, Mr. Wallwind," he waves a hand and John settles in the gigantic armchair, feeling as if he's sitting in a dollhouse, playing pretend with Fudge.

"Do help yourself to some scones," The man says, his plump face testimony of how tasty said scones are supposed to be. John politely shakes his head and takes out his parchment from his dragon-leather messenger bag. It was a gift from Anna for their tenth year anniversary and John hadn't stopped using it since.

"I’d rather not, Minister. Though they look very tantalizing indeed."

"I should hope so," Fudge says with a pointless chuckle as he twirls his own quill in one hand, his small beady eyes size John as if he's a dress robe, put behind a glass for sale. John Wallwind steadily holds Fudge's gaze, for nearly half a minute before he starts.

"Shall we get to it then?" John keeps his face carefully blank, pasted with an afterthought of pleasantness, he has chosen every word with care as to not aid the man in any way.

"Yes, we shall... John? May I call you John?"

John inclines his head and Fudge nods.

The Minister swipes a scone off the platter for himself and carefully starts unwrapping the white powdered treat with devoting care. "Then please," he says, the tips of his fingers powdered white already. "Feel free to start any time now, John."

John tries to keep his expression the same as it was before. "Vague reports thus far indicate a Death Eater attack in the muggle community occurring yesterday afternoon, taking the lives of ten muggles, three of which were relatives of the Boy-who-Lived, or they are claimed to be as such, do you confirm this statement?"

Fudge's mouth is full, and he cannot answer for a beat, his chin is dusted with white, and the man hastily reaches for a napkin as he washes down the rest of his scone with a long swig of his teacup. John patiently waits, the perfect image of professional journalism.

"Well, John," Fudge says, wiping his mouth with the napkin. "I wouldn't quite call it a Death Eater attack. A bit too strong-worded, isn't it?"

"Then what would you call this incident? It seems that the targets were ambushed in a muggle mall, there are claims of a dark mark hovering over the bodies for hours, and Obliviators were sent to the scene."

Fudge opens his mouth for a beat and then occupies it with another nervous sip of his tea. The cup clatters against the china saucer with a loud 'clink'.

"Foolishness," Fudge says and stares at John, who has carefully not instructed his quill to write down a single word.

"Pardon me?"

"I would call it a careless bout of foolishness, John. This is clearly the work of a sole fanatic." Fudge discreetly reaches for another scone, and John watches, only watches for a moment before he can trust himself to speak.

"Of course this is the work of a fanatic. They're called Death Eaters," the clock on Fudge's wall provides a rhythmic click as the silence between them turns from interrogative to awkward, dwindling as Fudge swallows down his scone and taps his desk with chubby, nervous fingers.

He waves his hand at John as if he had just told him a funny joke, "Of course this is the work of a Death Eater, sir," the tone is ridiculously condescending. "I have had reports of the mark myself. But there's no reason to chalk this up as an organized attack."

"So you do not believe that Harry Potter's relatives were specifically targeted to send out a clear message?"

Fudge's smile fades into a stressed frown. "Here's the thing, John. I do not believe in stringing theories and causing unnecessary panic. You know how Muggles are yourself, always running around, doing their thing, living their lives… I honestly think the chances of this being an accident is much more probable than that of an organized ambush."

John finally wills his Quill to move, frantically scratching against the parchment roll hovering near the desk and carefully nitpicking Fudge's every word. The minister looks highly uncomfortable in his seat, under the man's gaze. John finally brings his head to nod.

"Of course," he says. "Accidents happen."

"Exactly. And speaking further on the attack itself, I can assure every wizard reading this article, that this was an unplanned, one-time occurrence, it will not happen again, and our top Aurors are leading an investigation at this very second to arrest the culprit."

"So this statement further confirms your last, regarding Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore's claims… claims that indicated You-Know-Who has returned and was responsible for the death of a seventeen-year-old student, namely one Cedric Diggory?"

Fudge hooks a finger in the side of his collar and slightly pulls before leaning onto the desk, interlocking his fingers as he regards John with a worried frown and a quirk of his mouth. He seems awfully uncomfortable.

He clears his throat. "I met young Potter after the Third task, John. I have expressed my concern regarding the poor boy's health time and time again to Albus to no avail. Diggory's death was a tragic accident indeed, and young Harry seems to be the most affected by what transpired last year during the tournament."

John lets the words float over him in the tensed air of the office before inclining his head. "Are you indicating that these claims are untrue?" He makes each word count, he has to, in his line of work.

"I'm saying that Albus Dumbledore, while having the best intentions at heart, is using a child's severe traumatic experience in order to further his cause in the Ministry, John. I'm not sure you've met the boy yourself… a very fine lad. Too impressionable. As is the habit of children."

And corrupt politicians.

John only nods and lets his Quill scribble away at the parchment, blackening one line after the other.

"Are there any further comments you wish to make regarding this accident, Minister Fudge?"

"Yes, my sincere condolences to Mr. Potter for his loss, and also the nine families of the muggles that perished, alas they will never know the truth. We will bring justice to those responsible, and make a fine example of them, let it be known that our Ministry is as strong as ever. Thriving on Justice, and the truth."

John never breaks eye contact with the man as he's speaking, and Fudge does the same, carefully uttering each word as if it's a carefully rehearsed speech he has been preparing for in front of a mirror all day.

Wallwind nods, slowly, letting his curly hair subtly shift around his head. "Strong words with meaningful intent, Minister Fudge. This interview was a pleasure," he stands to shake the man's sugar powdered hands.

"Same, John," Fudge vigorously returns the handshake. "The sentiment is fully returned."

Except that, of course, it's not. It never is in politics.

##

"This is outrageous!" a clenched fist comes down upon the staff table, rattling cups and clinking the silverware. Severus Snape calmly regards the snarling woman, as Albus does the same.

The staff room's other occupants are shocked into a bizarre silence, Pomona and Flitwick exchange an uneasy glance and Sinistra has paused her teacup midair, watching Minerva with a perplexed frown.

"Outrageous, Albus! Have you read this… this piece of garbage?!"

"Of course I have, my dear Minerva." The man sips on his tea and smiles at her softly, he gestures at the Professor to sit back down but Minerva just shakes her head at him.

"They're accusing you of interfering in the Ministry while his own crony is in her office drinking tea! And calling one of my students… delusional? How dare they?"

Poppy nervously frowns. "Minerva, shouting isn't good for your heart,"

Severus is more than sure that calling Minerva’s outburst simple ‘shouting’ is a grievous understatement. Both regarding her heart, and Severus’s now spilled tea.

"Oh Poppy, I could care less about that blasted thing." She whips her head to face Albus, her bun the image of a mangled mane around her face. "Fudge is discrediting you. And people are listening to him… can't you see what he's doing?"

Albus calmly blinks. "I happen to agree with Poppy on this matter, Minerva. I've rarely seen you this peeved after reading the Daily Prophet."

Minerva glares at him in a way that would have made a student cry, and then turns away. Tensed. Enraged. Severus has seen that look on her only a few times before. "They're slandering my student and the Headmaster of the most prestigious school in the entirety of the Scottish Isles. I don't see how you could be calm. You have to refute this, of course…"

"I see no need," Albus says, gesturing for Minerva to take her seat. Her mug of tea is already ready and kept on the table.

Minerva scoffs in disbelief. "No need? People need to know the truth, Albus. We are in a war situation. We barely need people believing whatever _that_ is. If we wait on it, if we hesitate for a single moment, then we might as well not fight at all."

In the middle of that quarrel, Pomona makes a sympathetic noise in her throat. "I feel bad for Potter," she says with a shake of her head. "His name is getting dragged in the mud left and right… and with his relatives’ deaths? Poor lad."

"He's Fudge's main target, much like Albus. I'm not surprised." Charity inputs.

"Still, such nasty claims." They look at the cursed article lying in the middle of their essays. Harry's face is plastered under the headlines. "I've known the boy since he was eleven,"

"He's a blind fool," Minerva growls, referring to Fudge. "He's disregarding the signs. Of course, this attack was planned, and of course, it was meant as a warning. It couldn't have been clearer if they were dancing right in front of him in death eater robes,"

"People aren't that blind, surely they'd know this is an overwhelming understatement? Some of them are old enough to remember the first war."

"This isn't blindness, Minerva," Albus says, the gleam in his eyes absent for the first time since the staff meeting. "It's fear. Quite simply, people believe that this cannot evolve into more of a threat if it is ignored."

"That's ridiculous,"

"And people do the most ridiculous things when they're afraid." Albus sets his cup down heavily, "Public denial is what's fanning Cornelius's flames. He would say anything to gain public approval. Not to mention, the Ministry is in no place to take part in a war. Not financially nor magically abled. Fudge is aware of that."

"And instead of answering—"

"He's skirting around the issue," Sinistra interjects, looking up from her mug.

"Slandering your name, and Potter's." Minerva sighs with a set jaw. "Oh for Merlin's sake! That boy's relatives just died!"

"Speaking of Potter, shouldn't he be getting ready for the funeral?" Pomona asks, frowning.

"He refused to go," Albus says, his voice soft. Refused to go? Severus derives that bit of information from the subject and saves it into his vault. Something to mull over later.

"That's odd." Filius voices everyone's thoughts.

"Not his most outlandish decision this year, have you seen how many detentions he has had with Dolores in the past month?" Minerva huffs, apparently on a roll.

Pomona scowls, the expression out of place on the usually gentle-mannered woman, "I don't think he can be blamed for that. That woman is intolerable!"

Severus puts his mug down in place, passively scanning the room to catch several heads bobbing in agreement. Minerva still seethes in her seat as the others settle into trial activities such as mass grading their papers, and quipping between themselves.

Severus nods at Albus and then stands to leave. He cannot tolerate socializing.

##

There's a certain skip in Rosier's step, not easily noticeable but there nonetheless. He feels content, on a high. The rush of blood and the ear-blasting sound of the explosion is still ringing in his ears, the sheer _mirth_ and the sense of delight he had felt as he saw the muggles torn apart was almost immeasurable.

They had it coming, in all fairness. If anything, Evan personally thinks that an explosion was too much of a mercy. Too impersonal almost. But that was the way his Lord desired it to be done and Evan was in no place to argue.

What did it matter? He asks himself as he rounds the narrow corridor, his eyes idly running along the dark marble floor. Quite an exquisite taste, Evan has to admit.

One less muggle was one more victory in Evan's book, Potter's relatives were the perfect victims really, and the rest? They have been pardoned in a way. They died too quickly.

His jovial steps come to an abrupt stop before the double doors and Evan rights himself, slipping his silver mask in place with a smirk as he gently taps the wood with his knuckles.

"You may enter," The Dark Lord calls out and Evan does not hesitate. He's exuberant, in a way. In the way, a child is proud of a meager accomplishment. Killing those muggles were in no way meager but in comparison to his Lord? Mentioning it was a crime.

Evan walks in and immediately bows, sinking to one knee gracefully.

"My lord,"

The Dark Lord is sat on his throne, set in the middle of the Hall, the one that Malfoys previously used for gatherings, grand and decorated to hold feasts and the best of balls. Evan remembers attending Malfoy's bitch's pregnancy feast only fifteen years ago, as a teenaged boy. It was the talk of family circles for quite a while before the Malfoy brat was born. Now the Hall served a greater cause.

"Come closer, Evan," his Lord commands, and Evan does, ignoring the way Nagini is coiled around the marble throne, lethargically hissing at Evan as he strides to kneel before his Lord's feet. The snake's face is close enough for him to sense the rotting odor of death clinging to her like a cloak.

"They're gone. Your mission was beautifully executed," Evan bows his head.

"I'm beyond honored that you think so, My lord. I only live to serve you,"

"Yes, you do."

Rosier can hear the smirk in the man's voice. Playful.

"I might even forgive you for your shortcomings," Voldemort continues, caressing the end of Nagini's tail.

Evan's face stretches to a smirk once more, directed at the floor. "Your mercy is the reason I live,"

"Enough flattery, Rosier. Rise."

Evan is secretly relieved. He hates that blasted snake.

Voldemort regards him for a moment. "I'm pleased with you, enough to entrust something of utmost importance upon you."

Evan bows his head once more. He loves the thrill of a juicy challenge. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Safest Sound is a very vast and multilayered story. Tara and I have put in a lot of time and effort into it, and sometimes not all of the things make it to the main storyline, but we still want to share them with you. For that, we have decided to add another story to the series called _‘i’ll trade you a memory’. ___
> 
> __It’ll contain snippets that didn’t make it to the main story, deleted scenes, and other things that we couldn’t fit in. We hope you enjoy!_ _


	13. Not Even Here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings for; explicit language. 
> 
> Next update on Saturday, 15th August.

_ Why do I tell you these things, you’re not even here. _

_ -John Ashbery _

... 

  
  


Minerva is the first one who notices. 

She's the only Professor doing rounds tonight, and she's already halfway down the stairs to the Great Hall, her robes silently dragging against the cool stone floor before she hears it. 

Well, she doesn't hear it as much as she senses it first. A firm quiver, running through the halls, as if the whole building had shuddered in fright. The portraits around her are jolted awake, quietly murmuring and complaining as another strong wave pulses through the castle. 

Something is wrong. Minerva has her wand out in a flash, firmly striding back to the staircase. She needs to find Albus. 

The Knights stumble in their posts, tilting and swaying in their spot, on her way to the stairs, Minerva sees Pomona racing over to her, dressed in her sleeping robes, her wand illuminated blue at the tip. 

"Minerva!" It's a harsh whisper, the woman looks wide-eyed. 

"Pomona, do you feel it?" Pomona waves her wand and the Lumos vanishes, they stand in pitch dark and fall into a quick rapid pace. Minerva stifles the urge to transform into her Animagus form. It would have been much quicker. 

"My Hufflepuffs. They need to be evacuated immediately," Pomona says, worrying her lip. "Their dormitories are under the grounds!" 

Minerva briskly nods, they make a sharp turn as another pulse rattles the walls, this time stronger. Minerva doubts that Albus could stay asleep with this racket. He's most likely already aware of the problem. 

"Evacuate your students. Someone needs to wake Severus. The Slytherins aren't safe in the dungeons," 

Pomona pauses, her hand landing on Minerva's shoulder. "An earthquake?" she asks but her eyes indicate that she knows this couldn't possibly be the case. The school had strong wards, no natural disaster could possibly affect the castle to this extent. 

"No," Minerva exhales. She's composed, almost calm, but there's something in her chest, a tendril of panic. The children. They needed to get to the children. 

"The towers aren't safe either. Round the children and get them to the Great Hall. Smaller ones first, you know the drill, Pomona." 

She speeds past the startled woman. "Where are you going?" Pomona asks. 

"Albus." Minerva doesn't look over her shoulder. "This needs to stop before someone gets hurt," 

##

"Harry? Harry, you need to wake up," he isn’t having a nightmare. For the first time in a long while, and he wants to  _ sleep. _

"Hnnn," Harry grunts as he tries to roll away, but two firm hands on his shoulder stop him. 

"Harry, please, we need to leave. Neville, can you hand me his robes, thanks, go now, Hermione is waiting in the common room," the panic in the familiar voice finally cuts through Harry’s sleepy daze, and he groggily peels his eyes open, blinking in the sudden light. 

"Harry, mate, come on. We need to evacuate." Ron’s voice is getting frantic by the second. 

"What?"  _ Evacuate? _

"I'll explain, come on, I need to handle the first years too," Harry starts getting up, limbs protesting. With a bolt of fear, he quickly looks down at his hand, relieved to see that his cuts are hidden by his pyjama sleeve. But then he focuses on what Ron is saying.

"Why are we evacuating? The first years?" 

"I needed to make sure you were awake before I left. Come on, let's go," Ron is already moving away pulling Harry by his, thankfully, left hand.

"Ron, my glasses," Harry protests, scrambling. 

"Hurry!" What is happening? Why does Ron sound like  _ that _ ?

"Fine!" 

"Do you have him?" Hermione asks, she's in her pyjamas still, leading two first years into a line of scared, nervous children. 

"I have him. Second years?" Harry is more awake now, as he stumbles into the common room, wand in hand and glasses on his nose. Everything is in an organised kind of disarray. 

"Already left with Seamus, you need to take the first years." Hermione’s voice is brusque as she starts herding third years into another set of lines. 

"What's going on, you guys?" Harry can feel unease creeping up his spine, and the air is thick with something…  _ wrong. _

"The dormitories aren't safe anymore --" she is caught off by a sudden rattling in the common room, slightly shaking the walls, and moving the floor under their feet. 

"Ron, now," she snaps.

"First Years! All in a line, trail after me, hold each other's hands right now! Nobody is staying behind! Is that everyone?" He's asking that last bit of Hermione and she nods. 

"I counted them. Third years, Come on!" 

"Harry, follow the end of the trail, make sure no one's lagging behind. Move now!" Harry nods and quickly falls behind, absentmindedly putting up a glamour over his hand.

"Dean, I need help with fourth years, the head students are already dealing with the others, come on." Hermione instructs, not even turning to look at Dean as she leads.

A nervous chatter among the first years rises up. 

"Are we gonna die?" 

"No you idiot! This is a magical tower," 

"Then why are they making us leave?" 

"Keep it down!" Ron shouts at the eleven-year-olds over his shoulder, hastily leading the children along the walls, and has them each holding on to it for balance. Harry's hand is clammy inside a small blonde girl’s hand with wide brown eyes. She's sobbing. 

"It's okay, hey," Harry tries telling her, but he doesn't know that. He has no idea what's going on. 

"We're approaching the stairs now, listen to me!" Ron turns for a second to face the trail of frightened children. "Hang onto those rails like your life depends on it, do NOT let go of your partner's hands, until we're in the Great Hall. Do you understand?" 

"I'm scared!" 

Ron's eyes soften only for a second. "Don't be. We're not letting anything happen to you," he nods at Harry and he nods back before Ron leads the chain to the staircase.

"Don't let go of David's hand," 

"I'm not!" 

"Hang onto the railings!" Harry has never heard Ron's voice hollering so loudly. The children instantly scram to the railings once more. 

The girl in front of Harry cries harder. "Hey hey, don't cry. It's okay, we're almost there," Another violent shake rocks the walls, this time disheveling the stairs as well. The children scream.

"It's okay," Harry tries to sound convincing. "It's alright. What's your name?" 

The girl cries. 

"My name is Harry, and I have no idea what's going on either. But don't worry alright? The Great Hall is safe, and do you see my friend there? He's a prefect, you can trust him." 

"Grace," 

"Oh, alright, Grace. I promise, Ron and I won't let anything happen to you guys, see? We're almost there already. Only one other set of stairs." 

Grace tightens her hand around Harry's, and Harry swallows. Staring at the back of Ron's head as they steadily make their way down the stairs, he can hear Dean and the Third years approaching the top of the stairs now as well, much more calmly than the first years had. 

Ron keeps his tone authoritative almost right until the second they're inside the Great Hall, once inside he lets go of a first year he was holding onto, and silently stands by the gates as the children scramble in, counting them in his head as he taps each on the shoulder. 

Harry is the last person and he lingers by Ron's side, both can see second-year Hufflepuffs entering the wide gates, nearly all of them in tears. "Hermione--"

"I know," Ron cuts him off, dragging him aside so the Ravenclaw head boy can pass by, leading a thin trail of seventh years behind him. "She's handling the fourth years, they'll be here in a moment," 

"What's going on?" 

"I don't know, they woke Hermione and I via the badges, they shone and vibrated or something, then Mcgonagall was there? Rapidly firing off orders before she used the fireplace to floo away… and then we started rounding children in the common room." 

"It feels like an Earthquake," 

"Yeah but it shouldn't be that. Hermione said so, the school has wards, protecting us from natural occurrences like that." 

"Magical earthquake?" 

"I don't know mate, is Flitwick calling me? Fuck. Hang on here," he taps Harry's shoulder. "Don't move, I'll be right back," 

Harry awkwardly stands, looking around him with slight uneasiness. There are only three Professors present, Flitwick is instructing Ron and the Ravenclaw perfects as they nod their heads, Professor Sinistra is by the gates, her wands drawn and poised in her grasp for use. Professor Snape is standing by the staff door, his narrowed eyes inspecting the room like a hawk. His gaze falls onto Harry's for half a second before moving on, he seems too concerned with his own students to be overwhelmed with hatred due to Harry's presence. 

Hermione emerges with the fourth years and Neville in tow, they all look pale, not exactly distressed, but confounded by the abrupt wakeup call. Hermione's eyes fish him out of the crowd in a beat, but she waits until every student in her care is handled by the Head Girl before zooming past them and making her way to Harry. 

"Are you alright?" 

"Yeah, are you?" 

She nods, a bit breathlessly. "I saw Professor Dumbledore on the way down. I don't know what's going on, but it's bad," 

"Did they know what's going on?" 

"I didn't hear. I was handling fifteen students at the time, where's Ron?" 

"Flitwick," Harry jerks his head towards where Flitwick and Ron are talking, with Flitwick gesturing around. 

"They're probably making sleeping arrangements. No way they're letting us back into the dormitories. Make sure you hang nearby so we get a good spot." 

"Three sleeping bags?" 

Hermione nods, "Yeah, Ron and I might be occupied for a while. Flitwick is calling me. Save the sleeping bags for us." 

"I will," 

Harry's eyes rake the Great Hall once more, and on a sudden electric whim, he finds himself discreetly looking for where the Slytherins were situated. The smaller ones looked a bit shaken, less so than the other houses, but still shaken. The others look passively bored, some even annoyed as they look and curl their lips at the others. 

Harry finds Malfoy standing next to Zabini, his arms crossed, as he mutters to the other boy. Zabini is dressed in his uniform and Malfoy has his school robe thrown over what Harry can discern as a forest Green pair of pyjamas and black slippers. The boy single-handedly looks like the most put-together person in the Hall. 

Malfoy catches his eyes, and recognition flashed in his eyes before it's smoothly transitioned into a cold glare. Harry hastily tears his eyes away, fiddling with the button of his shirt as he waits with the other students. 

Per Hermione's instructions, Harry gets three purple sleeping bags from Professor Sinistra, bundling them in his arms as he makes his way to a corner to lay them out, for a lack of better things to do, and also since he promised to save a spot for his friends, Harry horizontally lies on all three of the bags, staring up at the stormy sky on their ceiling as he feels the unease quelching in his stomach. 

The ground shakes a few more times, but the lack of the house tables, and the sturdy vast walls are assurance enough that the Great Hall is a safe stronghold during this bizarre situation. 

Blankets are handed out, and the Professors firmly shepherds the younger children to their sleeping bags, all four houses' first years are settled near the Professors, in case of Emergency, Harry assumes. The older students are encircling the others, at the edges of the Hall, and others are peppered throughout. 

Malfoy is already asleep, by the looks of it, Zabini's cot is near him and the boy serenely sits in his uniform, seemingly sifting through a magazine. 

Harry spreads one of the blankets over himself to get rid of the coldness gripping his body and sending shudders down his spine. There's no sign of Umbridge yet. Not that Harry can see. 

Ron crouches down by Harry's head with a grin. "I'm hoping one of those is for me," he points at a sleeping bag and Harry shrugs. 

"I won't mind sharing," he swings his legs and straightens into his own sleeping bag in the middle as Ron flops down on his with a groan. Rubbing his temples. 

"I know one thing now," he groans. "Never having children. Ever," 

Harry feels a smirk forming on his face. "Not following the Weasley tradition?" he asks with mock indignation. "Your mom's gonna be so disappointed," 

"Shuddup!" 

Hermione comes nearly fifteen minutes later, snuggling under her covers with a sigh. She looks exhausted. And should be, she and Ron have been running around, minding children for almost two full hours. 

"Professor Flitwick says they're bringing us Hot chocolate from the kitchens soon, after this thing is dealt with." 

"What is this thing?" 

"I don't know but --" she lowers her voice and the boys lean closer to her. "I saw Auror Shacklebolt, and Tonks by the gates. There are more Aurors, they said, searching the grounds." 

"Hagrid," Harry starts, worry gnawing at him. 

"He's safe. I saw him talking with Professor Dumbledore." 

"That's good,” Ron says, relieved too, “You reckon they'll tell us what happened?" 

"Not likely,” Hermione’s mouth presses into a thin line, but then she says, “Let's just sleep for now, guys," Hermione looks like she’s over to keel over unconscious any moment now. 

"Hot chocolate?" Ron asks, pointing at the large doors of the Great Hall. 

"I cannot do anything but sleep now," 

To be fair, neither does Harry. 

##

"This is a very nice change of pace, Potter," Draco Malfoy says as Harry quietly reveals himself, dropping his invisibility cloak with a quiet swishing sound that is nearly drowned out by Malfoy's vials clinking together. 

"What is?" Harry asks before checking over his shoulder. He has been having a lot of trouble with Ron and Hermione these past few days, it seems that the Dursleys's death rekindled their concern. Set it ablaze more likely. And last night's disturbances set it ablaze. This morning Ron almost followed him into the shower before Harry had a one-sided shouting match at him regarding personal privacy.

"That you're not passing out on me like some damsel in distress," Malfoy easily answers, emptying the Murtlap essence in a small bowl, next to a clean white rag. Harry scoffs at the other boy and Malfoy shrugs. 

"Unless you preferred being on the verge of bleeding out every time," 

"Yeah, Malfoy," Harry plops down on the floor next to the other boy, rolling his eyes. "I have a thing for bleeding out in bathrooms." 

"Put your hand in the bowl, Potter," he pushes it in front of Harry, and he dunks his hand in, stifling a sigh of relief. He doesn't particularly enjoy letting his guard down in front of Malfoy, regardless of what happened the other times, he doesn't trust the blond one bit. At first, he wasn't even sure whether the other boy would try poisoning him or not. Two times he has been in Malfoy's presence, unconscious, and both times, instead of killing him, or maiming him, the Slytherin had actually acted like a… well, like a decent human being. 

"You shouldn't charm your hand afterwards," Malfoy grunts as he's rummaging through his school bag, distractedly examining Harry's submerged hand. "Magic can have unpredictable effects on potions, those two should almost never clash, Potter." Harry scowls at him and wriggles his fingers in the cool substance. It almost feels numb now, and the potion itself has a funny quality to it, almost as if it's cooled runny jello.

"I have no other choice but to Glamour it," he says and silently begs that Malfoy would let it go. Obviously, Malfoy doesn't.

"Just bandage it, say you slammed it into a knife by accident, it's not that unusual for you to do such things," 

Harry glares. "Just like you accidentally forget to sleep?" 

Draco's eyes darken. "Careful there Potter, you're entering dangerous territory." 

"It just seems awfully hypocritical of you to scold me for using a Glamour charm, when you use one nearly every day."

"That's me, the Slytherin Prince, drenched in hypocrisy, and aristocratic ideals. You caught me," the sarcasm in his voice is thick as he drawls the words out.

"So you do it out of vanity," Harry has a very hard time believing that. Of course, Draco Malfoy is a spoiled brat, Harry knows the kind, recognises them from a mile away, since he grew up with one, himself. Of course, Draco Malfoy is shallow and vain, but that wouldn't account for the reason why he's Glamouring his face at all, and why he looked so awful that day in the bathroom in the first place. 

Harry tries not to think of that day sometimes, other times, he cannot not think of the way Malfoy had looked at his reflection. The image of pure contempt, helplessness. And then perfectly composed as a statue within the next moment. 

As Draco finally fishes out his roll of clean gauze, Harry wonders how hard it must be to switch between sentiments like that. "Sure, Potter. Whatever helps you sleep at night," Then he raises his eyebrows, staring at the half-moon shadows formed under Harry's eyes. "I'm vain and sleep-deprived. Do you always insult people who are trying to help you, or am I a prime exception?" 

"I was just observing," Harry says, his voice quiet as he removes his hand from the bowl, lifting it up for Malfoy to take.

"Gryffindors aren't made for observing. It'll be too much on their foolhardy brains." Malfoy drawls.  _ Aha _ , there he is. 

"And Slytherins aren't made for human compassion. It'll be too much on their stone-cold hearts." He snarks back, although there isn’t as much heat into it as he had expected. 

"Cold-hearted?" Malfoy actually jeers at him, his grip on Harry's hand tightens to the point of bruising. Harry stifles the urge to pull away. "Your relatives died and you are feeling  _ great,  _ evidently. If I'm cold-hearted, then the Wizarding World must weep at their fate with a boy hero like you," 

"You don't know what you're talking about," Harry forces himself to look at Malfoy, not averting his gaze. 

"Neither do you." 

"I'm sorry," Malfoy’s hand loosens, and he starts wiping away the excessive essence and dabbing a dittany soaked cloth over it. 

"You apologize too much. But whatever,” he says, as he sets the cloth down and picks up the gauze, “We're not friends." 

"Can I ask you a question?" Harry is gazing at his hand, or rather, Malfoy's fingers wrapping the gauze around his fingers as he says this. Malfoy doesn't pause but looks up. 

"What sort of question?" 

"You don't have to answer or anything…" Harry hesitates. 

"Potter, do get on with it," Malfoy’s hands have paused now. 

"Why were you crying?" 

"I refuse to answer that," with that, Malfoy looks down again and resumes his wrapping. 

"It's alright. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked, I just wanted to fill in the silence, I say stupid things a lot of times when I get like that, you can just ignore everything coming out of my mouth, I don't mean it, I was just thinking--" 

"Merlin Potter, slow it down! You talk faster than a Quick Quotes Quill writes." Malfoy is looking at him, and his hands have paused again, he has a very bemused expression on his face. Harry wonders if Malfoy can see his flushed face in the dim bathroom lights.

"Yeah, whatever." He looks away.

"You can't ever tell anyone about that. About what you saw that day. If I hear a word out of anyone I might as well be dead, and trust me, I'll take you down with me, Potter," Harry frowns, slightly startled at the urgent tone in Malfoy’s voice. 

"You don't need to accompany every sentence with a death threat, Malfoy. I can keep a secret. Only if you keep mine." Harry looks at him, trying to figure him out. It’s frustrating, really, how hard Malfoy is to read. 

"Oh yes, I already have a spoonful of those," Malfoy's smile suddenly leaves Harry feeling a bout of panic bloom in his chest. 

"Spoonful? You only know one thing," he indicates his bandaged hand and Malfoy gives him a look. 

"Maybe one, by your standards, Potter. But Slytherins are taught to observe what the body says when the tongue rests. I already have quite a bit of dirt on you." That doesn’t sound good.

"Oh yeah?" He keeps his voice steady.

"Oh yes." 

"Like what?" Harry narrows his eyes, maybe Malfoy is bluffing.

"I know why you feel no remorse for the death of your relatives when it was clearly done to affect you. You hated them, it's clear. I know that you avoid Hufflepuffs as if they're Medusa's descendants because of what happened to Diggory.” Harry’s hand goes limp in Malfoy’s, mouth dry even as he forges on, “I also know that the true reason, the only reason that you're letting that pink toad faced bitch rough you up like this is because deep down you think you deserve it, out of some... Hero complex you have going for you," Harry snatches his hand away.

"Or the guilt." Harry can only stare at him, and Malfoy seems to immensely rejoice in his reaction. "I am undoubtedly right, aren't I?" 

"I didn't say that," 

Draco shrugs. "I know." 

"I didn't… I didn't hate the Dursleys." Really? That’s the first thing he could say? Harry wants to hit himself. 

"Potter… I'm the last person you want to explain this to." 

"You don't understand, they were my last remaining blood relatives, I didn't want them dead, I just-” he swallows, blood and screams and _ mangled limbs and the dark mark _ \-- “I didn't want them to hate me. I never hated them, I didn't intend for the Death Eaters to go after them. They wanted nothing to do with this and to die like this, it's… well, it sucks." he finishes lamely. It’s been four days since their death. Relief is still the strongest emotion he feels in regard to it. 

"Death Eaters don't exactly follow a hit list of the people you want dead, Potter. Their orders are strictly under someone else's desires. Trust me." There is something odd in Malfoy’s voice, and Harry wishes he could read minds. 

"I know that," 

"You really don't. No. Because if you did you wouldn't still be punishing yourself for Diggory's death." Yeah, definitely odd. 

"I don't enjoy what Umbridge does to me," Harry defends. And he  _ doesn’t _ . 

"But you do consider it an atonement. 'Oh she's hurting me and that's going to make up for what the Dark Lord did to Diggory ', that's how you think." Malfoy’s words are vicious as he stares at Harry, daring him to contradict him. 

"I never refer to Voldemort as the Dark Lord." 

"That makes you an idiot, Potter, aside from the fact that you didn't deny a thing I just said.” Draco suddenly leans back, and that’s when Harry realises how close they had gotten during their… conversation. “There's a reason one mustn't speak his name." 

"Because they're scared of him," Harry says.

"It's never that easy, you know. It's not always about fear. Sometimes, it's about survival." 

"Do you do it for survival?" Harry raises an eyebrow. 

"I used to do it for survival before he-- He killed someone I held very dear," and that’s when Harry feels like someone has just dumped a bucketful of ice down his shirt. 

"He what?" his voice is horribly thin and high, but Malfoy barely seems to notice. 

"The Dark Lord...  _ He _ killed someone," 

"Was it family?" It couldn’t be, right?

"It was my mother, Potter.” Harry is barely breathing now. But Draco barely seems to notice, “No one knows yet, not even my housemates, you cannot tell anyone, if you do, then I'm dead, in the most literal sense of the word, Potter. Do you understand the severity of the situation?" Malfoy is staring at him very very intently now, his eyes… desperate. 

"Oh god," Harry finally says, taking a breath into his too-small lungs. 

"Potter?" Malfoy asks, his previous expression gone. 

"Oh my god." What else can he say? The dream starts replaying itself in his mind. The face in front of him, the same face streaked with tears, twisted in anguish. The usually sarcastic, composed voice pitched high in desperate screams. 

"Why are you upset that my mother died?" Malfoy looks confused. So different from the boy of his dream. But it wasn’t a dream, was it? Harry swallows. Once. Twice. Malfoy asked a question. 

"I'm sorry. For your loss, that is. Yeah," Harry hates how breathless his words sound, no way in hell does Malfoy miss that. 

"Right." He sounds sceptical. 

"I should go.” God, he has to  _ leave _ . “I'm really sorry, losing a mother is hard, I would know… actually no, I wouldn't. I didn't know my mother, but you did and watching her die-- knowing that she died must be unimaginable." 

"Potter," there is a tinge of concern in Maloy’s voice now, but Harry is too far into his panic to really think much about it. 

"I should leave, they're looking for me, probably. And, sorry again, for your mom. I want to say it gets better eventually, but I wouldn't know, since I didn't know my mother, I obviously miss her and my dad very much but I was just a child and she raised you, so of course it hits harder--" he’s babbling, but he can’t stop. This time he sees Mrs. Malfoy, screaming, just as loud as her son. 

"What the hell," Malfoy sounds positively bewildered now. 

"Bye," he says shortly, staggering to his feet, taking in air in short quick gasps. 

"Potter!" Malfoy stands up as well, but Harry is already picking up his bag and cloak. 

"When is your next detention?" Harry pauses at the bathroom door, looking back. He probably looks pretty wild right now. He  _ feels  _ wild. Frantic. He has to go to Dumbledore. 

"Oh right,” Harry says, wracking his brain for the answer, what had Umbridge said? “Tomorrow. And thank you again. For this." 

"Yeah, you're welcome." Harry barely hears the response as he hurries out. 

##

For the second time in two days, Minerva finds herself briskly making her way to the Headmaster’s office after the curfew. She makes her way through the darkened corridors with a scowl on her face, and her hands fisted by her sides, wands clenched tightly in one, dimly illuminating the way.

Their school has been invaded once again, this time, however, the threat was much more pungent than Minerva could bring herself to admit. The Minister and his cronies were here, without any previous notice. It barely let Albus have enough time to send her a Patronus. 

One of the staff had tipped them off, and Minerva has no qualms regarding the identity of their mole. Repugnant woman and her pink cardigan, Minerva seethes, her heels clicking on the stairs. That toad faced abominity. 

Just as she’s about to make her way to the Headmaster’s office, she notices someone running to the same direction from the opposite side, their sneakers loudly clapping against the stone as they pant for breath. 

She opens her mouth to stop them on their track before she catches sight of the messy-haired boy, breathless and wheezing, Potter freezes the moment he notices her, coming to an abrupt halt. 

“Professor,” Potter says, his eyes darting to the gargoyle statue. Minerva stares at the boy for a moment before making her way to him, she clasps his shoulder. 

“You shouldn’t be out after curfew, Mr. Potter,” she says, firmly trying to turn the boy away from the Headmaster’s office. She really doesn’t want the Minister to see Potter in this state, or at all if it can be helped. The boy has been ridiculed and labelled by that man already, Minerva has no doubts that the moment he sees Potter, he’s going to connect him to the breach somehow. The way he had done in the past. 

Potter’s sneakers drag and the boy is fervently shaking his head. “Professor, I need to see the headmaster please, it’s an emergency, a real emergency, I don’t care if I get detention, please--”

“Listen to me, Potter,” she stops him, and slightly lowers her head to gaze into the boy’s distressed eyes. “You will not be seeing the headmaster tonight,”

“But--.”

“No,” she cuts in, digging her fingers in the boy’s shoulder for affirmation. “Not tonight, Potter. I know it might not seem like it, but whatever you have to say truly can wait until tomorrow morning. Go back to your dorm, draw your curtains and sleep.”

“Professor,”

“Do not make me take further action. Potter, I am asking you,” Potter’s eyes narrow and he slowly nods, steals another glance at the Headmaster’s office and then drops his head. 

“Is everything alright?” he whispers, as if afraid that someone is eavesdropping on them, and Minerva wouldn’t honestly put it past Fudge to do something as idiotic as that. 

She squeezes Potter’s shoulder and gently pushes him toward the stairs. “Go to sleep, Potter.” Potter looks unhappy but nods again. 

He runs. 

## 

"This is unacceptable Dumbledore! Absolutely Unacceptable!" is the first thing Minerva hears upon climbing the spiral staircase and stands behind the office’s door. 

"I think we all need to calm down, Cornelius,” Albus says, his voice as calm as ever. “Fretting will get us nowhere, the situation is well underhand, as you know. There's no reason to panic. None at all." With one last inhale, Minerva grabs the doorknob and enters, firmly curbing her expression into a business-like frown. 

"Don't be absurd!" Fudge cries with apparent righteous anger and the look is quite ridiculous on him. "A breach. In the wards! Anything could have happened!" He’s not the only one there, aside from the flock of Aurors cluelessly standing behind the man, Lucius Malfoy stands near the fireplace, his hands perched on the top of his cane as he watches the argument with an expression Minerva can only name as vague disinterest. 

"Really, Cornelius?" Albus flicks his eyebrow. "What could have gone awry wrong last night? There is no danger to be found, as Professor Umbridge has been kindly reminding us time and time again. Absolutely no danger." 

"Well," Fudge starts gaping like a fish, opening and closing his mouth several times as he tries —and fails— to come up with a response. "Any wild creature could have broken in! The escaped convicts from Azkaban are still on the run! Don't you remember Black's break-in only two years ago?"

"Of course not, Cornelius. And I assure you, such an occurrence will not happen again. I value the lives of my students." Minerva suppresses the urge to huff in annoyance, of course, he does. He wasn’t made Headmaster for nothing. 

"And yet, it happened." 

"But what was the cause-"

"Who cares about the cause? Do you have any idea what the board of governors are going to do once parents get the gist of this? I'm sure some of them already do. They're going to riot, Dumbledore. They're going to question your authority as the Headmaster. And quite frankly so am I!" 

"I was hoping that you wouldn't confuse politics within the school grounds, Cornelius." 

"I am most certainly not! Lucius, you tell him!" Minerva quirks a brow. The Minister sounds like a petulant child trying to prove his innocence in a misdeed he  _ did  _ do. Her eyes shift over to Mr. Malfoy, who has been regarding the exchange with a cool gaze. 

"The Minister is quite right, Professor. I don't reckon that the board will be pleased with this conduct. Whatever the cause maybe." Lucius finally says, his voice as smooth as a slithering snake. He was like that even as a student, she remembers. 

"I understand your concerns fully, Lucius, and what is your solution?" Albus says, his voice almost genuinely curious. Almost. But Minerva knows him well enough by now to gauge his reactions. 

The man lethargically shrugs. "Your possible arrest for misconduct until a trial can be put in place. Something to soothe the concerned parents until the truth comes out." Minerva frowns, something is wrong with Lucius. He seems detached from the whole scene. Earlier, he would have jumped at any chance to remove Albus from his post. And while he isn’t really doing anything good, he doesn’t sound particularly happy. 

"I see, and I assume that the reason why four lovely Aurors are escorting you is precisely to be used for this purpose?" Albus gestures to the four people strategically positioned around the room. Minerva feels a smile tugging at her lips, Fudge made the mistake by bringing two order members in for this. Not that he knows it. 

"It's the official procedure now, Albus. You are under investigation," Fudge says haughtily, his chin jutting out. 

"That's outrageous!" Minerva cries, unable to keep silent any longer.

"It's the law, Professor McGonagall. Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, you are hereby under arrest for misconduct and endangering your student's lives. You will either peacefully accompany the Aurors back to the Ministry, or you will be taken by force," Minerva manages not to gape at Fudge, her eyes flicking over to the occupants of this room. Umbridge looks like Christmas came early, or perhaps she got a new pink bow for her head. 

"It seems to me that this situation is gravely dire, but I'm afraid I can not oblige my dear Cornelius, I hope that you forgive me," Albus says, as Fawkes trills and lies over to his desk. The Minister is now eyeing the phoenix warily, so is Umbridge. But Lucius looks unconcerned. 

"What?" 

"There's a funny saying, about my family, Cornelius," Albus caresses Fawks's head with a single finger and the Phoenix croons. "An origin story behind our family crest, if you will,” Albus smiles, and this time Minerva is unable to quite stop the smile from breaching her face as she folds her arms loosely across her chest. “Quite an observatory line, 'A phoenix will always come to a Dumbledore in great need'."

"What is the meaning of this?" Umbridge shrieks, as Fawkes bursts into a column of flames. 

"It means farewell, Dolores," Is the last thing they hear as Albus Dumbledore vanishes in the same fire as his beloved phoenix. Leaving behind a pleasantly warm breeze and a smattering of ashes on the desk. 

"No!" Fudge cries in horror, surging forward. 

"Where did he go?!" Umbridge says, turning around furiously, as if expecting Albus to pop up behind her. 

"Call backup! Now! Search every inch of this goddamned place! I want Dumbledore arrested and in a cell by the end of tonight!" Minerva almost rolls her eyes. Do they really think they could arrest Albus? 

"Yes sir," Kingsley says, his eyes gleaming as he ushers Tonks and the other two aurors out of the room with some hurried instructions. 

Lucius surveys the office with narrowed eyes. "There needs to be a meeting with the board of governors. Quite soon, I'm afraid. Someone needs to fill in the position, and handle the Headmaster's responsibilities in his absence," 

"No need, Lucius. Dolores will take care of that."  _ What did he just say?  _

"Pardon me, Minister Fudge,” Minerva starts, her eyes blazing, is he really saying what she thinks he is? “But I am deputy headmistress of this school--" 

"And under investigation as well, Professor. For all we know you might have had a hand in Dumbledore's escape just now. Dolores will do just fine, she's a very vigilant, responsible woman, as she was the one who seemed concerned enough to report this to me right away," 

"Of course Minister, I am honoured by your decision. Not to worry, sir, the children are absolutely safe with me," Minerva has never wanted to transfigure a human into an animal more than at this moment. She doesn’t think it would be a hard transfiguration either, given that she is already half toad. 

"I'm sure they are, yes, yes. Now I need to get back to the Ministry." He turns to Shacklebolt. "Find him, and arrest him. No matter the timing, I want to know the second he is in our custody." 

"Yes, sir." 

"Good, good." 

Minerva knows what else is good. Grabbing the man's wand and shoving it up his- 

Her thoughts are cut off as the floo flares.


	14. A Dark Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings for; explicit language, blood, violence, torture. 
> 
> From this chapter on, this story is going to take an even darker turn. Please read the warnings, and the tags carefully, as they aren’t put there lightly. Some of them might be triggering for some readers and we wouldn’t want to be the cause of that. We want everyone to look out after themselves and only proceed if they are comfortable. 
> 
> Next update on Saturday, 29th August.

" _Change always involves a dark night when everything falls apart. Yet if this period of dissolution is used to create new meaning, then chaos ends and new order emerges."_

_\- Margaret J. Wheatley_

…

The paragraph in front of him about the properties of acromantula blood in a water based draught must have been written by some imbecile who has mush for brains. Severus scowls at the chicken scratch, the ink blotches, and the far too small roll of parchment. This child is a third year, surely she knows better than this?

He has now read the same few lines about three times, and it still doesn't make much sense. His quill feels like it is about to splinter in his hand, and Severus closes his eyes, schooling his face into a cool mask as he drops down the essay in disgust.

Black is a blithering idiot without an ounce of common sense, self preservation, or regard for others. Severus doesn't know why he expected better, perhaps he thought his past recklessness would have taught Black better, but apparently not.

Had he not been present in the Order meetings? The meetings declaring Umbridge as a threat, and that he must remain as far from Hogwarts as possible, and not try to contact anyone? Especially without prior notice. And he had to come in barging like the Knight Bus right in the middle of an arrest by the Ministry just to give Potter a ridiculous gift, endangering himself, three order members, and worst of all, mucking all over Albus' reputation.

How else would a fugitive have floo access to the headmaster's office if he didn't know about it? Either that makes Albus an incompetent senile old man, or the arrest necessary. An attempted arrest, anyway; Severus snorts. He cannot blame them for trying, but he can at least enjoy their humiliating loss.

Nevertheless, if Minerva hadn't been smart enough to act as shocked and enraged at him as she had, she would probably have been arrested too. As it is, Black managed to disappear before the aurors could gather their wits.

At least Black had the sense to carry a Portkey with him.

The damage was done, not only is Albus now accused of endangering his students, but also for helping a convicted criminal. He's gone now. Severus is sure they would not be able to see or hear more of him unless he wants them to.

The Ministry, and thosevulturistic reporters, are in an uproar, and Hogwarts is being more closely monitored than ever. Black's appearance has thrown everyone into disarray, the people had already been disgruntled by Potter and Albus' claims about the Dark Lord's return, and now another bombshell had been dropped on them.

The implications of Umbridge as the Headmistress are huge and Severus shudders just thinking about that bloated pink monstrosity, he barely stops himself from letting out a disgusted noise. Hagrid would do a better job than her.

Shaking his head, he sets the now broken quill on the table over the stack of unchecked essays, glaring at them as if they were the cause of the Dark Lord's return.

##

The proceeding articles that emerged after Professor Dumbledore's escape each seemed wilder than the last, and Harry sat each morning at his table, wide-eyed as the owls delivered the Daily Prophet in a flock of chaos in an otherwise ghostly silent Hall.

**'HOGWARTS IN DISARRAY, HEADMASTER UNDER INVESTIGATION'**

**'DUMBLEDORE FLEES, THE LIES BEHIND THE BEARD'**

**'MINISTRY CONSPIRACY OR HUMAN ERROR; what really happened during the Hogwarts breach'**

**'CONCERNED PARENTS RIOT, CLAIM CHILD ENDANGERMENT'**

**'NOTORIOUS KILLER SEEN IN HOGWARTS, MINUTES AFTER HEADMASTER FLEES'**

**'DUMBLEDORE SUSPECTED OF AIDING AZKABAN ESCAPEE, SIRIUS BLACK'**

Several papers from different publications lay strewn around the breakfast table, each said the same thing. Even the Quibbler isn't exempt from the general outrage and utter disbelief that plagued the papers.

"This is rubbish," Hermione mutters, rustling the papers with an incredulous frown and Ron snatches one of them to look for himself. Harry tries to look interested in his bowl of oatmeal and blueberries but miserably fails.

"What did you expect though?" Ron says, buried nose deep into his own paper. "They've been doing this since the summer break, first with Harry and err-"

Harry rolls his eyes. "Cedric's death, yes. You can say it, Ron,"

Ron flushes a deep shade of vermilion and shoves the papers away. "Yeah, well. That. Things aren't going to improve with that toad in charge of the school,"

"Nobody looks happy about that," Hermione says as she glances at the staff table, noticing, maybe not for the first time, how vacant it seemed. More than half of the staff is absent from the table, with the exception of McGonagall and Snape. And neither looked happy to be there. These past two days haven't been easy on anyone.

"I still don't understand it," their voices are hushed, and Harry knows that they're not the only ones, barely anyone dares to raise their voice above a certain volume these past few days whilst speaking about certain topics. It's quite a dramatic change from the previously boisterous crowd of students.

"How did it all happen, and… Snuffles' involvement? Merlin, this is a mess,"

Harry hasn't heard of the man since the big scare the other day. He's still not quite sure of how it happened, but Remus appeared the night after, looking disgruntled and quite distressed as he pulled Harry aside and quietly told him that 'Yes, he's okay, and yes, it really was him, and no, he's not hurt, just shocked, '

Remus had fidgeted under Harry's blank gaze, his worn brown sleeping robes shifting as the man grabbed Harry's shoulder. 'He wanted to hand you a gift, a stupid old toy of ours. He found it in his old trunk, he got too excited to think about the repercussions…it doesn't matter.'

Harry had just looked at him.

Remus' grimace didn't diminish. 'He thought you were lonely… as I said, it was just a stupid mirror. He's been talked with, you don't need to worry about a thing.'

'That guy only keeps on making trouble,' Imaginary Sirius commented after Remus left and Harry aimlessly stood in the common room, feeling a blazing heat of anger and indignation wash over him. Dumbledore was gone. Sirius almost got caught. He was a witness to a murder no one knew about.

The murder.

This only makes Harry more sick, and he gives up on breakfast, he pushes the bowl away and wriggles to make some room between his two friends, squashing him between themselves as they're quietly discussing the paper still.

"You said it yourself," Harry says defensively when Hermione glares at him. "It's all rubbish. Let's just not read that garbage,"

Almost unconsciously, he throws a glance at Umbridge, sitting in Dumbledore's place, sweetly sipping on her tea, and smiling down at the subdued students. It's a sinister smile, or so it seems as such in Harry's head. That woman had never looked like more of a toad than as of this moment.

He still has detentions with her. Not held in Dumbledore's office, as it had been completely sealed shut upon the man's departure, but instead in her own pink splashed, cat littered villainous lair. In many ways, Harry is relieved that he doesn't have to serve any torture sessions in the man's office.

He also feels, strange as it may seem, that he's the only person, only remotely getting used to Umbridge's dictatorship these past two days.

The first rule of survival in Harry's books is 'adapting', but in this instance, he's not quite sure whether that's what's at stake or his general resignation regarding his fate. Because he is resigned to it.

Harry doesn't bother listening to Hermione's response, and only tears his gaze away from Umbridge over to the Slytherin table, making sure that no one else will catch him at it. He cannot help it. Every time he sees Malfoy's face, the only thing at the front of his mind is the other boy's twisted face, contorted in pain and outrage as he cried and thrashed in his bounds, only meters away from his mother.

Harry had thrown up a few times already when he spent too much time obsessing over his dream. Even though it wasn't a dream. Harry isn't sure what it was. He's scared of asking anyone, he's terrified of telling Ron and Hermione, after the whole debacle with Sirius, Harry's too paranoid to even try uttering the man's codename. Much less writing him a letter about how he saw his cousin ruthlessly killed by his other cousin while her son watched and her husband did nothing.

And Snape was there.

Snape was there, standing next to a chuckling- considerably taller- Harry, standing with his hands locked behind his back and his face completely stoic. A statue probably would have shown more emotion than that man.

If Harry's _thing_ was true, then Snape was the only other person who knew about Malfoy's mom. Aside from Lucius Malfoy.

Harry doesn't like that. He doesn't like the implications of that at all.

"-Harry? Harry?"

"Hmm?"

"You're staring at Malfoy, mate." Ron pats his shoulder. "Even he's starting to freak out,"

Harry slightly shakes his head, and his eyes focus on Malfoy, seeing the other boy's startled and confused eyes gazing back at him. Harry swiftly turns around, picking his Transfiguration book to stuff it in his school bag.

"Are you alright?" Hermione asks and Harry hastily nods. Picking an apple on impulse. He takes a huge bite out of it despite nausea clearly sending the opposite message.

' See if you can throw up on Umbridge's plate. It's better than whatever garbage she's eating, ' Harry chokes on the apple and imaginary Sirius cackles, smacking the table as he laughs.

Harry really needs to get a rein over imaginary Sirius. Soon.

##

Five words, sixteen letters, six vowels, and ten consonants are causing Harry much more pain than they ought to.

He counts again as each sentence is scratched out, and somehow even his pain muddled brain is chastising him for expecting different results. It's always going to be five words, sixteen letters, six vowels, and ten consonants. It's not going to change, no matter how hard Harry wishes it to lessen.

The parchment is worn and crimson, and the quill remains sharp, no matter how hard Harry presses it down on the parchment. Neither break. The quill remains cruelly sharp and firm in his hand, and the parchment remains unwrinkled, only stained with Harry's blood.

He imagines that, since the start of the year, he had lost more than a pint of blood to this quill. He could have easily felt better if he had donated the same amount instead of it being tortured out of him. There's no way he can stop this now. At this point, she won't even need to make up a reason for assigning him detentions. She's the Headmistress now, she can make a whole decree just for Harry.

"Hem. Hem," There's that irritating clearing of her throat and Harry pauses four words and two letters in, five vowels and nine consonants. He looks up.

"Yes, Professor?"

"It's Headmistress Umbridge now, dear,"

Harry nods. He wants to tell the woman where she can exactly shove that title but forces his thoughts to remain linear. He needs to keep his expression blank.

"Yes, Headmistress Umbridge?" it is an effort not to emphasize that particular word.

The woman clears her throat again, her beady eyes staring into Harry's eyes with a disturbing light shining in them. She wants something. Harry knows that look well.

"I was wondering if we could talk for a moment, Mr. Potter? Just a friendly chat."

Friendly chat. Harry would rather throw himself off his rooftop than imagine having a friendly chat with this woman of all people. But he is in no position to object to what is clearly an order. Hesitantly, he puts his quill down, trying his best to ignore the throbbing in his hand. He cannot wait until he can plunge it down the Murtlap Essence when he's done here.

He hates admitting how helpful it is. Well, Malfoy, really. Who made it possible. Malfoy whose mother was dead. And Harry had seen it happen.

He shakes his head. Not now.

"Yes?" he says aloud and Umbridge leans on her desk, her ugly cardigan pulling tighter as she drops some of her weight on her linked hands.

"I've heard a lot about you since I came here Mr. Potter," she starts and Harry instantly knows that he's not going to like this. "From what I've heard you seemed very close to Albus Dumbledore."

For a moment, Harry isn't quite sure what she's asking of him. "He was the Headmaster. I'd say everyone was very close to him,"

"Oh yes, but you were his favorite," she purrs and Harry instinctively shifts in his seat. He doesn't like the gleam in her eyes.

"I was just his student, headmistress."

She nods. "I've also heard that Black is your godfather. Were you aware of this?"

It takes everything out of Harry not to pale as the woman mentions Sirius's name. "Yes, I did know that."

"He's a killer, Potter." Umbridge points out. "Took thirteen muggles and his friend out with a single explosion. Not unlike the one that caused your relatives' deaths,"

Harry stares at her without a reply. He doesn't know where this is going. He knows he wouldn't like it. "I'm sorry Headmistress, but I don't understand…"

"Oh, of course, you wouldn't, Mr. Potter. You're merely a child,"

Harry waits for her to continue.

"And I'm sure you're aware of Black's break-in, two days ago,"

"I read it in the papers," he didn't. Remus came to him, dragged him out of bed, pulled him in the corner of the common room, and rapidly fired off the facts at Harry's face before claiming that he had to leave. It left Harry feeling very put out, and slightly shaken.

"So you did." She drops her chin on the back of her hands, and Harry takes a deep breath. The cats meow on the walls. "Did it make you wonder why Albus Dumbledore, who seemed quite taken with you, was assisting your parent's killer behind your back?"

"Voldemort killed my parents,"

She flinches at the name hard enough that her teacup rattles, sloshing the smallest amount of tea on her saucer. Umbridge's eyes narrow. "We are not speaking of his involvement. Black had a very distinguished role in getting your parents killed, wouldn't you say?"

"I guess so,"

"You guess," she drawls and Harry bites the inside of his cheek. Maybe he should have reacted differently.

Murtlap Essence. Malfoy. That's all Harry tries thinking about. Because this detention had to end at some point. She's interrogating him, and Harry is in so much pain and frustration from his hand alone that he doesn't even care about the reason. He just wants to leave this office, before burning it to the ground.

"Yes. I guess," he says, feeling much braver than he should be in this situation.

"You wouldn't happen to have any speculations regarding that?"

"About why Sirius Black betrayed my parents?" Maybe if he is deliberately obtuse, she would leave him alone.

She shakes her head. Impatient. "Why Dumbledore was assisting him."

Harry shrugs. "No. I don't think about it, Headmistress."

"You haven't wondered." she says and Harry sees the way her shoulders tense.

"No, not even once," he says blandly.

"Don't you feel betrayed. Did you care about Dumbledore at all?"

No. Harry feels tired, hungry, in pain, and quite simply more murderous than he has ever felt in his life. If she keeps this up, he might just go through with Imaginary Sirius's plan. Kill the bitch. Then dissolve the body in a potion or something. Maybe Snape would help him too, he certainly didn't seem to like her all that much either.

"I think that is Professor Dumbledore's business. His choices in life don't define my reactions. As you just said, I'm only a child, and there's no danger threatening me at this moment, even if it were, you're here to protect us, Professor, " he takes a deep breath and musters up the fakest smile he has ever had pasted on his face, it feels greasy and disgusting. "Don't you think so as well?"

Umbridge looks awfully irritated by his response, and his smile turns a little more genuine, a lot more smug, though he tries to tone it down. "Yes, well, of course. Children shouldn't be occupied by such matters." She clears her throat, picks up her quill. "You're correct. It seems that the detentions are finally having an effect."

"I think so as well," Harry would pay an unimaginable sum of money to watch this woman get devoured by a group of ruthless hungry cats. Anything.

"Well then, perhaps, you should be off a bit early today." She waves a hand. "Come over here so I can inspect your hand,"

Every touch of her hand on his revolts Harry to the point of vomiting, but he manages. Walks over to her and sticks out his bloodied hand. It's slowly going numb again and the blood is starting to crust into a rusty brown.

"Hmm, deep enough," she comments, turning his hand over a few times before looking up at him. "Your next detention is on Wednesday. Two pm, sharp. I would hate it for you to be late, young man."

Two means no lunch for Harry.

"Oh, I will be on time," Harry promises with the same smile that painfully stretches his face and then turns, his face dropping into a glare as he picks up his bag and heads for the door.

He is getting seriously tired of the constant dizziness that's been plaguing him, not just after his detentions, but rather, all the time recently. He has gotten better at managing his stumbling, though, and is able to portray a bare minimum of stability as he makes his way out of the office and towards the stairs.

They're meeting at the Astronomy Tower today. Draco had insisted that they don't stick to the same place for too long. Any other time Harry would have called Malfoy paranoid. He would have refused, would have tried to seek a way out of the 'blackmail', however much he found comfort in it; but now, knowing what he did, he understood.

Malfoy's mother had been killed. And Voldemort sure didn't seem pleased by him or his father either. From the urgency with which Malfoy had asked Harry not to tell anyone about it, Harry could only imagine what horrors he'd been promised.

He was probably risking his life by helping Harry.

Blinking back the blurriness furiously, he shakes his head hard. He can't afford to think like that right now. Everyone he knows is in danger. He can't just isolate himself and live somewhere in a hole.

Maybe he should.

He almost wants to turn back around and go to the dorms, end this stupid arrangement. He is knowingly endangering Malfoy's life. The pain in his hand spikes and he staggers again.

Selfish wants win out in the end and he makes his way over to the astronomy tower. Draco really knows his potions. Or healing. Or whatever. Harry doesn't need a label for what Malfoy is doing. The boy himself had named it 'Blackmailing' and Harry refused to see it for what it was. 'Helping'.

The relief feels so blissful after hours of torture but it has an expiration date, as does everything, and Harry really should pull that bandaid off before it becomes etched into the wound. Maybe he could end it today, this could be their last meeting. And then he will stop putting at least one person in danger.

Yeah, he would do that. Nodding firmly to himself, and then stopping because it made him dizzy, he quickly climbs up the last set of stairs to the tower.

Draco is sitting on the floor, twirling his wand around, and the rapid motions are causing small sparkles to fly from the tip in shapeless sprinkles. He doesn't acknowledge Harry's entry until Harry plops down next to him, wordlessly holding out his hand.

Malfoy takes it, peering at the damage with pursed lips. "What does she want to do? Carve into your bones and harvest them?"

He hadn't thought about it that way, but that doesn't seem… impossible.

His bones are probably brittle from years of malnutrition though, so he doesn't know what Umbridge could do with them. He just shrugs. And then winces. The pain has started flaring up not only in his hand but up to his whole arm. It's dull and ignorable. But present. He can't explain it. For a moment he contemplates telling Malfoy, but then decides against it. They're ending their meetings today. He's ripping that imaginary band-aid off, not confiding in it.

Malfoy is unrolling the gauze right now, and Harry watches him, secretly marveling at his unhurried expression. This is the last time he'll ever see Malfoy like this again. Harry discreetly mourns the loss for a reason he himself is unaware of. Malfoy's eyes flick over to the already murky bowl, tainted with blood, and he frowns. He grips Harry's wrist again and pulls it out. Harry almost protests at the loss of Murtlap essence, but then Draco speaks.

"You're bleeding way too much," he murmurs.

"Yeah, that tends to happen when you cut a whole sentence into your hand for four hours straight."

"No," he says, looking up at Harry's face with a frown, "Still too much for that. The cuts, however deep, shouldn't bleed so much. They aren't cutting into any major artery or vein."

Unease rises up in Harry's throat, and he's about to say something when Malfoy shakes his head and starts wiping away at the cuts. Still bleeding sluggishly.

They _are_ bleeding quite a lot.

Malfoy offers him a vial of Blood Replenishing potion as he rubs the dittany soaked cloth over the injury, and Harry uncorks it with his mouth, working awkwardly with his left hand. He'd been skeptical at first, entertaining the thought that Malfoy might be poisoning him. But he is fairly certain now that these really are Blood Replenishers. Or he might have bled out to death long ago.

Grimacing at the taste, Harry gulps it down in two swallows, trying not to gag.

"Oh, grow a pair, Potter" Malfoy snaps and snatches the vial back, dumping it inside his school bag along with the rest of the vials. Harry watches him, feeling his stomach clench. He should probably bring it up now, when Malfoy seems the calmest.

Malfoy catches him staring, and stares back with raised eyebrows. "What?"

Harry thinks on the spot. "Did you know that the letter 'a' isn't in the spelling of any numbers up to nine hundred ninety-nine?"

Malfoy stares at him. "What?"

Harry has no idea why he just blurted out such a thing. It is true, what he said, he's tried it out himself quite a few times, mostly when he cannot sleep. But that still doesn't tell Harry why Draco Malfoy is privy to that information now.

"If you count to nine hundred ninety-nine, you would find that there's no 'a' in the spelling. It's true."

Malfoy lets go of his school bag but keeps on looking at him. "Well, thank you, Potter, for the random trivia."

Harry's not glad, he wants to hit himself. Malfoy either doesn't notice the contempt on his face or doesn't acknowledge it in any way, rather he keeps himself busy with gathering up his supplies.

"Malfoy I-"

"What is this?" A third voice rings out, a very wretched, familiar voice. Harry's blood runs cold. Neither he nor Malfoy turn. But they don't need to.

"Mr. Potter?"

No. Oh no. Harry blinks hard, and blinks again. There's a good chance that this isn't real. Harry wishes it to be a dream, one of those _things_ again. But the look on Malfoy's face says it all. He looks horrified, and past Harry's shoulder, at the woman standing behind her.

She's real. As real as the words on Harry's hand.

"Care to tell me what is going on here, Mr. Malfoy?" Draco stares at her, absolutely poised, and still, except for his wide eyes, his half-opened bag still in his hands.

Umbridge steps closer, her heels dully clicking as she gets closer. Harry cannot do anything but stare at Malfoy's face, his eyes just as wide and his bandaged hand clenched.

They are screwed. They really are. Harry has been so stupid. So fucking stupid.

"Has a cat got your tongues then?" She walks around them, circles them until she's behind Malfoy and facing Harry, her beady eyes traveling from his paled face to his bandaged hand. Draco's eyes are now on Harry's face as well, and he looks pensive, as if he's trying his hardest to remain stoic.

"You have been very disobedient, Mr. Malfoy, haven't you?" She says, almost crooning and Draco straightens, his eyes shifting back to a dull grey.

"Headmistress-"

"Oh it's quite alright, Mr. Malfoy," She says, her eyes narrowed and stitched to Harry's hand. Harry doesn't dare breathe.

"I just suppose that Mr. Potter here needs a firmer reminder, seeing as our current… arrangement is redundant. We'll just have to try harder,"

'You're really losing an opportunity here,' Imaginary Sirius says, he's kneeling by him and Malfoy. 'She's standing right by the edge, she's going to make you suffer, she's going to out him,' he nods his chin at Malfoy. 'Just a little push, and down she goes,'

"No." Harry says aloud, and Umbridge flicks an eyebrow.

"Oh no complaints now, Potter." She turns around and looks over the horizon, "You have been terribly naughty." She clicks her tongue, the picture of a disappointed parent. He'd take the Dursleys over her any day. There was never a day where they hadn't been disappointed in him. Or rather, disappointed that he was still there in their house and alive. Harry had never liked them, but they'd also never sent his skin crawling like she did. And now they are dead. Why couldn't _she_ have died instead?

"All that work, and effort," She curls her lip with a small shrug. "No matter. We'll just have to work a bit harder then, won't we? Maybe try something that really makes the lesson… stick."

'She's going to kill you, it's only fair that you return the courtesy, Harry.'

He's tempted, awfully tempted. But he cannot.

"You've already consumed a large sum of my time Mr. Potter," Umbridge claps her hands once in resolution. "Detention tomorrow at two? I hope you wouldn't be late,"

This feels wrong. Beyond wrong. Harry frowns in confusion, looks away from her to Draco, but the boy is not moving nor looking at him, he looks thoughtful and tense. Harry opens his mouth.

"What, you're just allowing me to leave?"

"I believe those were my words, yes. Detention tomorrow at two. Did I stutter?"

She didn't. But Harry still cannot believe his ears. The tone of her voice is easy for him to distinguish. She's dismissing him. Just like that. Something is fundamentally wrong with that. With the way her eyes are looking at him but her mouth is forming words contradictory to the look in her eyes.

Harry throws one last desperate look at Malfoy, who doesn't return it, before slowly pushing himself to his feet. Umbridge watches his every move, a disgustingly wide smile on her face, stretching it like pliable dough.

"Alright. Thank you, Headmistress." Harry quietly picks his bag, and sneaks a glance down at Malfoy, still on the ground.

"Malfoy and I should be going now," he says it mostly for the other boy's sake, but Umbridge clicks her tongue once more. The sound makes Harry want to wriggle in discomfort.

"Oh no, I shall escort Mr. Malfoy back to his dormitory." Draco's eyes narrow and Harry glances between the two, feeling highly uncomfortable.

"I'm sure the two of us-"

"You better run along now, before we'd be forced to extend your punishment, Mr. Potter. Don't you think?"

Malfoy finally looks up and stares right into Harry's eyes. "Leave, Potter."

Harry turns, against every nerve in his body that screamed at him to stay, and mechanically makes his way to the spiral stairs that lead down the tower.

##

Draco feels strangely calm as he follows Umbridge down the stairs. He knows there is no way in hell that she is just 'accompanying him to his dormitory'.

She will probably have him sit in her detention right now. He will get a firsthand experience in what Potter has been going through for over a month since the term started. His wand is a distinguished presence in his sleeve. He knows he can take on Umbridge, he has been trained by his parents and Severus. And he is not above using the dark arts to escape if she tries something.

Because she has the potential, Draco knows this, and can easily see it on her. But what would she try, and more importantly, what would be her motive?

His hands twitch at his side, and his eyes narrow. If Umbridge could, he is sure she would be skipping right now. She sounds way too cheerful than anyone has the right to be in such a situation.

At least Potter is safe.

Draco almost pauses when the thought rises. Where did _that_ come from? When did Potter's safety surpass his own? Well, if he were to be murdered tonight, at least someone will be there to provide testimony. He had managed to wrap Potter's hand before Umbridge busted them, so Draco's sure Potter would make it to his dorm alive. Even though he has been looking progressively worse as the detentions went on. Worse than he'd been when Draco found him passed out on the bathroom floor.

He takes in where they are going, and surely enough, they seem to be headed towards her office. Definitely in the opposite direction of the Slytherin dungeons. He slips his wand down his sleeve, running a finger over its tip.

He just has to remain alert. He would be able to at least get out of there if something happens. He doesn't know what could possibly go wrong with serving detention at least two hours after the curfew, but he also wouldn't dismiss every fiber of his being that screams that something will. Draco is going to be ready for it.

She opens the door for him, her smile an ugly slash across her face, stretching wide and showing too many teeth. "In, Mr. Malfoy."

She doesn't show any indication that this might be strange, her words are spoken as if telling him something as mundane as time, not inviting him to her office past curfew after she specifically told the only other witness that she was taking him to his dorms.

It all sounds very murder-esque.

His wand slides further down his sleeve, and he looks around, assessing his surroundings, taking in the purring cats, the sickening splash of pink on every surface, the repulsive odor of her perfume. Before he can really do much. Umbridge has shut the door behind herself with a loud thud and is turning on him, her wand out and ready to attack, although not trained on him. He tenses.

"Well, Mr. Malfoy, I have to say I am very disappointed," she starts, tapping her wand against her chin slowly, as if thinking very hard. Draco doesn't answer, just looks at her with a blank, bored gaze.

"Fraternizing with the enemy?" she continues, and Draco stiffens. Enemy? He knows that she hates Potter, but enemy is a strong word, certainly? Unless-

"Did you learn nothing," she says, her eyes taking on a malicious glint, and dread pools in Draco's gut, "from your mother?"

The three words shock Draco so much that for a second all he can do is stagger back a few steps, his heart thudding and ears pounding. _No no no no_.

His hands have seemingly gone numb, and he can't get a good grasp on his wand, but Umbridge is still speaking, "The Dark Lord would be most disappointed, Draco. He had such high hopes for you."

Death Eater. Death Eater, she's a Death Eater. She's with them. His mind is scrambling. This was exactly what he had been afraid of that very first day he found Potter unconscious.

He has the sudden urge to laugh hysterically, because of course it happened. Of course the very thing he feared has happened. He's been discovered by a Death Eater and she is probably going to kill him now. No one will know. Just like no one knows about his mother.

"What do you have to say for yourself, Draco?" she asks, and this time her wand is trained directly on his face. She's too close for his comfort. Somehow Draco thinks she'd be too close for comfort even if she was in the opposite wing of the castle.

He finally manages to get a hold of his wand, it slips into his palm and he's shouting, fumbling, the wand movements all wrong, "Reducto!" Somehow, as if sensing his desperation, the spell fires, right at her face.

But she is too fast. Of course she is. She's not a Ministry worker at all, she's a Death Eater. She throws up a wordless shield as her eyes spark with surprise and fury. "My, so bold. You'll just need to be put right back in your place, right, Mr. Malfoy?"

He barely has time to lift his wand, let alone put up a shield himself, when she says, her voice impossibly stable and vindictive, "Crucio,"

He has a split second in which he is sure his face contorts in horror, before blind agony bursts through his body. This time, he is aware that he is screaming. His raw throat another added element of pain as he thrashes around. Vaguely, he also feels himself banging his head against- against something hard. Most likely the edge of her work desk. The pain doesn't last, consumed by the rest of his body splitting torture.

When the curse is lifted from his body, Umbridge's face is inches from his own, and he jerks back in surprise, his eyes widening. He cannot feel his wand, his only weapon, where is his wand?

Umbridge rests her wand against Draco's cheek, and he lets out a strangled noise. The touch repels him, disgusts him, and he wants it _off_ his face, along with the portion of skin she's touching. It feels wrong.

"What do you have to say for yourself now, Mr. Malfoy?" she digs in her wand harder, making him wince.

Her cruciatus wasn't as strong as Aunt Bella. It wasn't, he knows it. His limbs aren't shaking as violently as they had the last time, and he can _think._

So he speaks, "Fuck you." Then he grimaces. Probably not the best choice of words, he thinks. His thoughts scattered and hysterical, _should have said 'fuck off'_.

Umbridge's face smoothes out, "Very well, Mr. Malfoy. You're forcing my hand now."

Forcing? He wants to laugh, and he probably does let out something resembling a twisted chuckle. She _already_ tortured him. His head is throbbing. His options are laughably limited.

Running away, if at all possible by an astronomical streak of luck, could be considered an option if she, along with his godfather, nearly half of the people he knows for sure and their parents weren't Death Eaters.

Staying here, getting tortured by this wretched woman, until she decides to either wipe out his memory or do something else, well, Draco doesn't bother finishing either thought. They all lead to the same fate.

She gives him a smile, which is probably meant to look grim, but just comes across as gleeful and sadistic, and Draco braces himself. If _muggles_ can take hours of this, he can take a few minutes.

"Diffindo!" Draco flinches in surprise, and Umbridge jerks her hand back with a hiss. There is a long, red gash running from her wrist up to her elbow. Then his eyes flit towards the doorway, from where the voice had come, and Draco gapes.

Potter.

He is panting slightly, and looking pale. His wand is trembling in his hand which is still pointed at Umbridge.

Stupid _, stupid_ , Draco wants to shout, she'll just hurt them both. _Kill_ them both. Potter is such a moron.

Umbridge straightens up, "Well, Mr. Potter. Seems like you don't listen to instructions well either. No surprise there." she's facing him, and Draco struggles to grapple around for his wand, finding it should be easier than this. It must have rolled under the desk.

Draco uses her distraction and ducks his head and just as he had thought, his wand lies, innocuously under the desk, slightly out of his reach.

Harry sends a stinging hex towards Umbridge, and Draco doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. A stinging hex, what the fuck is wrong with Potter? His fingers strain to grab the freaking wand.

She blocks the hex very easily, smiling, shaking her head. "Potter, you're just making it worse for yourself."

Potter, in spite of seeming that he very well realizes that fact, still lashes his wand at her "Confringo!"

She deflects it again, advancing on Potter and Draco's fingers close around his wand at last, he tries to stand, knowing that Potter would definitely need the help but his legs won't cooperate. He's not trembling as much as he _could_ be, but Umbridge is sadistic and his head is pounding. He can cast without standing, no big deal. He would be pretty incompetent if he couldn't.

His vision swims a little, and he glances up. He doesn't have time to curse himself, as he sees Umbridge sending a jinx at Potter, Draco quickly shouts 'Protego!", sending a shield propelling in front of the other boy, stopping him from collapsing.

Draco grabs the edge of Umbridge's table, almost pulling off the horrid table cloth and everything on the table along with it, struggling to stand. By the time Umbridge turns to him, her hair is a wild mess as she sends a jet of red light at Draco and whirls to face Potter again. Taking on her is taking more effort than it should. Potter isn't half bad at defence and Draco _knows_ how to duel and yet, she's just… winning.

Potter is too slow, for some reason. She sends another stunner at Potter and the boy barely dodges the curse before lunging himself to the right, crashing into her decorative cat shrine upon a table. Draco stifles a groan and grips his wand tighter.

This isn't good. Not good at all. He's beyond dead, a walking corpse really. Not once, not _once_ had he fathomed that this creature was a death eater. She couldn't be, she works in the ministry, they're not that incompetent, to let a death eater woman work as the Minister's secretary. She's affiliated with the dark lord. That must be it. No marks.

Just like his mother.

A voice in his head whispers something about his father. He ignores it.

"The harder you fight me the worse your punishment will be!" Umbridge snarls at him, "Our Lord will not remain merciful forever, Draco!"

Potter's eyes widen in realization and Draco has the most hysterical urge to roll his eyes. He's just getting it now? God, Potter is slow. This is genius. This explains a lot actually. She wasn't assigned only to interfere with the ministry. She was assigned to torture Potter to silence, and probably get rid of Dumbledore.

"Sod off," he sneers back, reeling as he quickly dodges a stunning curse, and prepares to fling a curse in response before the fireplace in Umbridge's office flares green.

A man that Draco distinctively knows as one of the Rosier family steps out, Draco knows it in an instant because of the trademark honey colored hair and narrow cheekbones. Two features exclusively belonging to Rosier men. Draco remembers it well enough. He's seen the man around before.

The young man catches Draco's gaze, steadily holds it without an ounce of concern. He looks too young to be Rosier Senior, his father's former business partner. This must be the son.

"Where were you?!" Umbridge cries, finally standing over a stunned Potter, and Draco sighs. Rosier's eyes are still on him, before he throws an irritated glance at Umbridge. "You've wasted three full days, still unable to get the Dark Lord's work done, and then couldn't even come to aid me?"

"If you cannot handle two teenage boys, then what must be said about the cause you serve to our Lord?"

Umbridge huffs, and clenches her wand tighter. "One of them happened to be Potter," She glares down at Potter's unmoving body. Rosier raises an eyebrow.

"He's barely five feet," Rosier turns to Draco once more, who has been subtly hinting his wand towards the man. "Potter and Malfoy's whelp. Treachery runs in their blood it seems,"

"How would you know?" Draco sneers, and slowly pushes himself to his knees.

"You wouldn't be here if you weren't. Our Lord was too soft on you and your family." the man's lips draw back to reveal his pearly white teeth, somehow sharper than one would have expected. Draco returns the glare with a sneer of his own.

"You have no idea what you're babbling about,"

"Neither do you." he turns to Umbridge, "We're taking them."

The woman looks shocked. "What? Both of them?"

Rosier jerks his chin at Potter's body. "He's unconscious, basically laid out for us. We're taking them both. Our Lord would be most pleased with our conduct."

"He doesn't even know we're bringing Malfoy-"

"Traitors are to be punished with no deliberation." the man cuts in. "Dumbledore is as good as gone. We're taking the boy." he sneers at Draco over his shoulder, "And you,"

"Fuck you, Rosier,"

"Your father will be most displeased. That is, if he gets to live through the night. Bad blood… he seems plagued with it,"

Draco says nothing more, and instead narrows his eyes. He cannot take on them both. He needs a distraction. Anything to release Potter from the curse so he could help. He has no idea how Rosier is with a wand, but he knows that Umbridge isn't much competition.

Before he can even twitch his wand, Rosier whips his own wand, ripping Draco's wand out of his clenched hand and flying into the air. Draco hisses as Rosier smirks in triumph. Nonverbal magic. Fuck.

"If you're finished with your antics now," he inclines his head, and points his wand at Potter, levitating him as Umbridge heads to wrench Draco off the ground by his elbow.

"You won't get away with this," Draco spits at Umbridge and she backhands him, flinging his head to the side. In a wild, incomparable parody of what Auntie Bella did to him only a while ago.

"I won't have to," She smiles at him, sweetly. Disgustingly. "You'd be dead before you find out, wouldn't you?"

Draco doesn't doubt it. But he knows that his only satisfaction at this moment is humiliating the vulgar, repulsive figure before him. "You wouldn't know either. You're not even worthy enough to bear his mark." he smirks. "You're his bitch,"

Rosier seems nonplussed by the exchange, as he reaches for the floo powder and inches Potter closer to the fireplace. "Hand him over," he says to Umbridge and the woman squeaks indignantly. "What?!"

"You're running the bloody school," Rosier drags Draco to his side, his hand tight enough to grind Draco's bones. "You cannot just leave your post. Stand back and damage control. Until our Lord summons you,"

"You're just going to take the credit!"

"For stunning two underage boys?" he rolls his eyes. "As if. Scram before you anger me, Umbridge. I'll send Dolohov along later,"

"I told you," Draco cheeks, narrowing his eyes at Umbridge's flushed, enraged face. "You're nothing."

Rosier shoves him into the fireplace and before Draco can utter a word, he's stunned. All he hears before they floo away, is the young man shouting,

"The Malfoy Manor!"

Fuck.


	15. Endure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *PLEASE PAY ATTENTION TO THE TAGS
> 
> Chapter warnings for; implied sexual harassment, explicit torture, violence, blood, language.
> 
> Everyone, please pay attention to the warnings. They’re important and put there for your benefit, we don't want to hurt anyone, do not take any of them lightly.
> 
> Next update on Saturday, 12th September.

_ “lift with your knees, atlas, _

_ the heavens are a burden _

_ but in the starlit ink of constellations _

_ you have written: _

_ endure.” _

-weight - a.j. (via achillics)

...

Lucius has to get rid of the clock in the study.

It's an ancient thing, passed on from his father's great great grandfather during the first Warlock warfare, it has been hanging in their study for more than half a century now, and it still works perfectly, but Lucius cannot bear it.

He throws a semi-cold glance at the ticking antique from the corner of his eyes, and then trails his eyes back to his parchment. The ticking is louder than it should be. Almost booming in Lucius's ears. Narcissa hated this clock. She never objected to its presence in their study, but Lucius knows how much she detested the old thing. That, and Lucius's cutlery set left from his grandmother.

She thought them too 'old fashioned '.

'At some point in your life, my love, you need to let the dead die, in order to really live, ' she had said, her delicate, warm hand rubbing his shoulder in a comforting circle. Lucius had smirked then.

'Admit it Cissy, you just really want the clock gone,'

Now the clock remains, and she is gone. Lucius considers that an insult. Not sure from whom, but he does so nonetheless. The clock will have to go in the immediate future. That's the one thing he has control over. Only the furniture in his house. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Somewhere along the way, he realizes that he probably hadn't signed up for this. Nobody had, really. Not even Bella, his sister-in-law, and the murderer who killed his wife. She wasn't always fanatically besotted with the dark lord. She was intrigued. She wanted control, power, superiority, and that was all the man had promised them then. Lucius had wanted the same thing. Not just for himself, but for his Narcissa as well.

They had a beautiful life ahead of them. Just the two of them, with Draco.

Lucius blinks and then inks his quill once more. Writing this letter really cannot be delayed any longer. He's been fooling around as it is. Usually he is much more disciplined when it comes to reigning in his thoughts. He is very focus oriented, precise in his pursuits, ruthless in his ambitions.

He has a special quill in the second right drawer in this exact same room, from a magical golden quail, charmed to remain forever sharp, a gift that she had gotten for him the day he was accepted in the ministry.

He only ever used it to write to her, in the event that they were separated, it was so far and in between. But when he did, she became overly benevolent with her responses, as if she knew that Lucius had written with the quill, as if the words upon the parchment really didn't matter that much. Lucius should get rid of the quill too. This time for his own sake. Maybe he should have buried it with her.

It takes him two more minutes to realize that he's just not going to finish writing this letter. It wouldn't matter much. Just throw some gold at them and they would be appeased once more. It's a bold, unwavering truth in life. One Lucius has learned by heart. Everybody has a price. Throw enough gold at them, and you would be getting anything you ever desired. Even the Dark Lord had a price.

One that couldn't be paid with the kind of gold Lucius has lying around. That's his main weakness. He cannot buy that man with coins. Of which he has an abundance of. And in Lucius's experience, if one cannot buy something in this world, one must sell something in order to gain it by force. Such was the way of the world. You gave something, you got something in return.

Lucius's price had already been paid. His wife was dead. Killed. His son was traumatized. He was knee deep in a mud pit, with no way out. Not yet, anyway. But Lucius is… somehow optimistic. He has paid his price. Now the Universe must pay its own.

As if on cue, the floo flares a bright, radiant green and Lucius curls his lip. His Manor has become a tavern. Every kind of filth is let in, and they seldom leave by choice. Lucius abandons his blank parchment, fetches his cane and turns to leave before out of the corner of his eyes, he sees the peculiar face of Evan Rosier.

The man… intrigues Lucius. To say the least. There is a wildness to him that Lucius had not seen in Rosier Senior, Roger Rosier's eyes, a certain glint that Lucius sometimes finds in Bella's eyes. Unhinged curiosity. The sadistic yearning to see what happens next by pushing the limits. Lucius knows the look, hates it with a burning passion. To him it means the loss of control, and the loss of control means a loss in life. In a world run with the concept of wealth, loss of any kind is catastrophic.

Rosier isn't alone. Probably hindered with his muggle entertainment, a bunch he must have snagged on his way over here. He did that more than Lucius would have liked to see. Evan coolly responded, always, that one less muggle was one more step to victory. Lucius thinks the man just likes to watch them squirm.

Right before he fully turns to leave, Lucius's eyes catch a hint of blonde hair, and he stops in his place, stops breathing, the cane clenched in his hands, as he stands and the man steps out. Lucius doesn't dare turn, but doesn't let himself be beguiled by the possibility of shock or despair. He needs to be sure.

That's Draco. Lucius clearly sees the boy, limp in Rosier's grasp, his hair a mess and his clothes rumpled. His mouth slightly slack. That's his son. Being manhandled by a sadistic twerp.

"What is the meaning of this?" he snarls before he can really stop the impulse. He's stepped closer too, and for a single moment, he's too occupied to notice the second figure nestled against Rosier, considerably shorter, thinner, with messy black hair and a pair of glasses. Potter.

Potter and his son have been stunned and taken out of school.

Rosier stares back at him, quite calmly. "Your son is here for treachery. Potter…" he pauses then looks down at the boy. "Well, he was on a silver platter already."

Treachery. The word turns the liquid running through his veins to molten silver. He hates the word, the expression, everything that comes with it. Treachery. His son? The idea was laughable. Lucius loves his son, beyond words and worlds combined, but he's no traitor. He just, he doesn't have it in him.

Too pliable. Lucius refuses to call it cowardice. He's not. Just too cautious.

"Don't be absurd, Rosier," he steps closer still, he doesn't like the way Rosier is holding his son by the arm. As if he's a ragdoll. "Why are two fifteen year old boys who should be sleeping in their beds at  _ Hogwarts  _ in my study?!"

Rosier promptly lets go of Potter, and the boy drops to the floor in a heap of heavy limbs, upon the rug that Narcissa had chosen when she was five months pregnant with Draco on a whimsical visit to Diagon Alley. Lucius raises an eyebrow and waits for an explanation. Rosier isn't insane. Lucius knows that. He wouldn't just abduct the boys for no reason. Lucius doesn't even know how he had made it inside the wards.

"The pink bitch caught them together," Rosier says, lewdly smiling down at Potter as he carelessly shoves Draco into an armchair nearby. Lucius's hand grips his cane tighter. He doesn't move from the spot.

"And now they're here,"

"See that fancy bandage on Potter's hand?" Rosier nods at it, then glances back at Lucius. "That's your son's handiwork. I wonder who taught him that… his mother, maybe?"

"You weren't ordered to do this," Lucius pointedly keeps his eyes away from Draco. He's fine, he tells himself. Just stunned. As he will remain until this misunderstanding is solved. Lucius wants him back in his bed in Hogwarts before dawn, preferably.

"Well, it's a shame that traitors don't wait around for orders. Your son was aiding Potter. The boy who lived. The boy  _ our Lord  _ assigned the pink bitch to, for torture."

Lucius looks at Potter's hand, bandaged but soaking through. "It must have been a simple misunderstanding. My son loathes Potter. I'm sure given the chance he would torture the boy himself,"

"After he grows a spine," Rosier amiably comments. As if talking about the weather. "I'm taking Potter to the dungeons. Bella might like a new plaything until our Lord arrives."

Bella's plaything. Lucius, on a very shallow scale, pities Potter for an instant before the sentiment dissipates. Potter wouldn't survive his sister-in-law for long. Not long at all, depending on the duration and the method she puts in action.

"Without our Lord's consent?" Lucius clicks his tongue, rolling his eyes as he passively forces his hold to slacken upon his cane. "You're delirious, Rosier. The Dark Lord will have your tongue for this," his eyes deliberately travel down the man's robes. "Perhaps something more, if he's feeling adventurous,"

Rosier's eyes narrow and Lucius's eyes inch back up from the man's waist back to his face. He smirks. "Are you going to risk your manhood?"

"You're just worried for your brat,"

"If you insist on acting like an idiot, then by all means," Lucius swipes a hand, gesturing at the timid looking man. "Go ahead and ruin Potter and my son before our Lord gets to them. I shall enjoy every  _ second  _ of your punishment,"

Evan's lips curl down in disgust. "Nice tactics, Lucius. You haven't changed a bit since our school days."

"How would you know?" Lucius drawls. "You weren't even out of your mother's womb then."

It is, in a way, true. Rosier was only a small first year before Lucius graduated. In fact, Lucius hadn't even known the little brat existed.

"I'm taking them to the dungeons." The man says now.

"And I shall accompany you while you gather your fun time buddies. No messy stuff," he turns once more, waves his wand and the study's doors open. "I cannot stomach it when virgins scream. I shall write to our Lord in the meanwhile."

And despite every nerve in his body, demanding that he rushes to his son's side and never leave, Lucius steps out of the office, meaning only to be absent for five minutes. Much can be done in five minutes. He knows this. Time is gold. And Lucius never wastes wealth.

##

Someone is screaming. And this time, Draco is sure it isn’t him. Even though his throat still feels a little sore.

When he tries to move his body, dull pain flares up his spine and he stifles a groan. He opens his eyes slowly, scared of what he would find.

He can’t seem to recall where he is, and his head is pounding too badly to think clearly. And the infernal screaming just won’t stop. It seems to be rising in pitch. He tries to think through the harsh cacophony. Umbridge. There was Umbridge. And-- and she is a Death Eater.

Draco’s blood runs cold as memories come rushing. Rosier and Potter and Malfoy Manor. They aren’t in Hogwarts anymore. With more effort than the task should warrant, Draco manages to half open his eyes.

The screaming cuts off abruptly.

Dreading what he might see if he turns his head, but not able to bear not knowing, he slowly turns his head to the side. His head is throbbing with a dull ache as he tries to clear his vision. Someone is laughing. And the voice sounds horribly familiar.

He has to reign in a choked sound as he sees Bellatrix bent over something-  _ someone _ , on the floor. She doesn’t seem to notice that he’s awake, and Draco almost heaves in a sigh of relief until she starts speaking, “Aw, baby Potter, I thought you were tougher than that.”

She's stroking his cheek.

The realisation that it had been Potter screaming is almost worse than finding Bellatrix in the cell with him. It’s a cell, he realises almost belatedly. The dungeons below the main levels of Malfoy Manor. His mother had never let him go even near the ominous looking door in the cellar.

Of course, he hadn’t listened. He had gone down, just that once, his curiosity overtaking his need to obey his mother, but it had been very… anticlimactic.

The dungeons had been empty at that time, and while they had still reeked of a strange sense of foreboding, it wasn’t what Draco had been expecting. Probably for the best, his thirteen year old self had thought.

Maybe if he’d explored more, he’d know a way out of the magically reinforced metal bars which he knows adorn every cell.

Bella is still speaking, crooning, really. Draco tries to ignore her, at least Potter isn’t screaming right now. Although his loud rasping breaths echo around the stone walls almost as loudly. He sounds very much in pain.

His eyes flick over to the cell entrance and- freeze.

His chest feels like it's constricting, and he can’t get in any air. He tries to muffle the sound of his hyperventilating, but he knows he fails when Lucius’s eyes glance over at him for a split second. Too many emotions in them to decipher, before his father looks away again.

‘You shouldn’t wear your emotions on your face, Draco. Your face is a mask, and masks bear no expression, no weakness to exploit.’ his father’s voice says, a faint memory from when he’d cried after breaking one of his favourite figures. He was seven.

He is sure his face betrays everything he is feeling right now. Horror, anger, betrayal, disbelief. Not necessarily in that order.

He finally manages to raise a fist to cover his mouth, stifling anymore sounds.

At least Bella hasn’t noticed him yet.

Potter starts screaming again, and Draco flinches. His screams are so loud. Had his mother screamed this loudly? He doesn’t want to remember. Had  _ he  _ screamed that loud?

There’s a rustling in the shadows, and someone steps out. For a moment, Draco can’t recognise him through his haze of panic, but then the man removes his hood and familiar dark blonde hair comes into view.

Rosier.

“Finally awake, are you?” he sneers, raising his wand.

Father’s cane raps sharply against the metal bars, and Draco barely manages not to jump. Lucius looks at Rosier meaningfully, something dark in his gaze. Rosier huffs, and starts lowering his wand.

Draco can’t quite conceal his gasp, partly due to his surprise, when Rosier sends a stinging hex his way. His father doesn’t say anything, and Rosier smirks before finally lowering his wand and turning to Bella. To Potter.

He got off easy. Draco doesn’t want to feel grateful to his father, because he still hasn’t  _ done  _ anything. And he is on the wrong side of the bars, and Potter is still fucking screaming. But at least Draco isn’t. That’s got to count for something, right? He doesn’t know.

Bella clicks her tongue with a growl. "Come on, baby Potter, SCREAM!"

Potter sobs.

Slowly, half scrambling, and smoothing out his face to hide his winces of pain, Draco manages to prop himself up on the nearest wall. He’s almost about to pat down his robes for something, anything, when he realises he isn’t wearing any. Just the school uniform. Without the cloak. It almost feels like they’ve ripped away some layer of protection.

Bella is standing now, and Potter… he is still. Too still. And silent. Draco can see silent tears streaming down his red face, as he pants. His eyes are closed. Maybe he has passed out. But Draco knows it’s a futile thought, Bellatrix doesn’t allow mercies such as unconsciousness. He is probably just unable to move from the pain. Maybe too tired.

Draco hopes he has managed to sufficiently veil the fear in his eyes as he stares at Bellatrix. Willing her to combust on spot.

Her lips curl in a delighted smile, “Draco,” she begins, her sing-song voice grating on his nerves as much as filling his veins with ice. “I thought we had an understanding, my dearest nephew.”

‘You tortured me,’ he wants to spit. But fear mutes him.

Bella’s mouth downturns in mock disappointment, “I thought you were supposed to be smart. A fast learner.”

“Bella,” Lucius’ voice rings out through the cell, a note of warning in it.

Bella just lifts a hand, waving him down. Draco is embarrassed as the urge to flinch arises once more.

"Neat little work you've done with his hand," she comments, perhaps a little too casually. "Mommy dear taught you well, didn't she?" She steps over Potter's prone body and walks to Draco, crouching before him with raised eyebrows.

"You have been very very naughty. You helped li'ddle Potty, you healed his hand, you alleviated a victim our Lord SPECIFICALLY ordered to torment!"

"Bella,"

"Hush, Lucius dear," She snaps at him without looking away from Draco. "Your son needs to learn some manners. He needs to learn that Potter wasn't his to touch. Look at him, Draco. Look at what you've done to him!" Her breath is starting to come in harsh gasps, her fury palpable as she bends down over Draco.

"He's in pain. Because of you. Because you couldn't duck your head with your fucking tail between your legs. He might  _ die  _ because of you. Now tell me, Nephew, is this better? Better than what the pink bitch was doing to him?"

"You--" Draco starts, finally finding his voice, but is silenced by a harsh slap, his face snapping to the side, hitting the wall behind him. Draco sees his father flinch out of the corner of his eyes.

"You're the one forcing my hand! I warned you, boy! I told you what defiance gets you! I warned you that I'll beat it out of you! Just wait until My Lord returns, and once he knows  _ exactly  _ what you've done…" she takes in a deep breath, straightening up, the wild rage in her eyes shifting to something more subtle, more dangerous. "Well, you better send my regards to my bitch of a sister. After he's done with you."

"Enough," Father says again, and this time he sounds slightly desperate.

"You're too soft with him, Lucius. Too lenient. He's a wimp. One that doesn't have much time left, by the looks of things," she's still staring at Draco.

"I'm sure there's an alternate explanation to this situation. My son cannot stand Potter. All will be cleared once the Dark Lord returns,"

"When shall he?" She finally turns towards Lucius, and both Draco and his father seem to relax, just marginally. Almost unnoticeably.

"He said three days. Potter isn't to be maimed beyond a point of return. He wants the boy sane."

"Of course he does. Potter won't be of any use if his brains are busted out," Rosier snorts, looking pointedly in the direction of a still sobbing Potter.

"My son, also, isn't to be damaged, or he shall firmly respond to your disobedience." A tightly coiled knot in Draco's gut seems to unfurl at that. He isn't naive enough to think he won't be hurt. But perhaps it won't be that bad. At least, not until the Dark Lord returns.

"I'm sure Evan and I can still come up with creative ways to keep our guests occupied. Don't we, Harry? Don't you just  _ hate  _ your name?"

Before she can get his hands on a semi conscious Potter again, Rosier sighs. "You've been at it for two hours already, Bella. Our Lord needs him to think with his brain, not a pile of mush."

"They can take more. They always can. Remember Alice and Frank, oh how loud did they scream," she says this last part to Harry, gleefully lifting him up from the floor with her wand. "Let's see if you can scream louder, Harry. I bet you could."

Rosier rolls his eyes once more. "Let the rest have a turn too,"

"Oh, so that's what has your wand in a twist. You want a turn with ickle Harrykins here,"

"Do you blame me?"

Bella growls at him. "I do, as it happens. This wasn't planned, you know. He's gonna be mad. At you, mostly. By now, they all know that Potter is missing,"

"I got him The Boy Who Lived. Our Lord will be most gracious," Rosier sounds… defensive. If Draco was in any position, he'd have wondered about it.

She snorts, polishing her wand with the hem of her skirt. "He most certainly will be, Evan. Come, help me freshen him up." Then she looks over her shoulder at a stoic Lucius.

"You could help, you know. I know you don't like getting too dirty. But no one's prohibiting wand work," She speaks so casually, so nonchalantly of what they're about to do, that it involuntarily sends shivers down Draco's spine. They speak of Potter's torture the same way one makes small talk.

"Potter's endurance is high. He can take a few hits. Cannot you Harry?"

"I'd rather not get blood on my robes, you carry on,"

She scoffs. "As if I needed your permission. CRUCIO!"

Potter doesn't scream as loudly as before, he jerks against the ground, his head smacking into the stone several times with a painful, dull thud. He's already tired, and Draco understands why, the boy was already injured and severely exhausted before. This is not only pushing his limits, but kicking them out of the field. Draco honestly doubts Potter ever being the same after this ordeal. If he gets out of it, that is.

Draco himself is living on a deadline. A three day deadline until the Dark Lord arrives. There's no hope of getting out sooner than that, even if he thinks about people rushing in for Potter's rescue, there isn't much hope. The Malfoy Manor hasn't built a name for itself for nothing. It was an impenetrable fortress, there were piles and piles of wards put on this damn place, they were hard to decipher and break apart. Dumbledore couldn't send any members inside the wards without his father's explicit consent, which he wouldn't give anyway.

They're the last person anyone suspects. Even in spite of Draco missing simultaneously with Potter. He's sure that father already has a solid watertight excuse lined up for his sudden absence. One that only results in leading Dumbledore's people  _ away  _ from them.

Sometimes, Draco really hates how good his father is at this sort of thing. This time, it might actually result in his death. First his mother's, now him and Potter.

His aunt and the sadistic git Rosier are relentless on Potter, and the boy takes it with the minimal amount of objections. Draco doesn’t quite understand the boy's strategy. He thrashes, cries out when it hurts, sobs and cries like a toddler, but doesn't speak a single word. Doesn't plead for it to end. Draco almost wishes he could do so on his behalf.

Enough, already,  _ enough. _ Aunt Bella is driving him insane.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, and Draco's ears possibly cannot handle Potter’s voice ringing against his eardrums, his father makes Bella and Evan stop. Potter is a child, he says.

"He already looks half dead," his father continues as Bella very reluctantly lowers her wand. "Leave him be for now,"

Bella grumbles but yields in the end, she turns on the heels of her shoes and strides out of the cell, Rosier closely on her tail. Potter's beyond gone, prone on the ground, his glasses nowhere in sight. They hadn't made him bleed, not even once, but his bandaged hand is severely soaked through.

Draco cannot bear looking at Potter for more than a second. He looks away as Bella and Rosier walk away, leaving his father on the other side of the cell alone with them. His father doesn't say anything, he's not even looking at Draco, but rather staring at Potter's body with a blank face.

"Be smart," he finally says. "Be worthy of your name, Draco,"

"Father," his throat is dry. He really is thirsty. His father turns to leave.

Doesn't look back behind his shoulder once.

Draco didn't expect any less of the man, but he still feels slightly bitter as he painstakingly makes his way to Potter, whose body is wracked with violent shakes every few seconds, as a result of prolonged exposure to the curse. He needs a nerve soother. Draco knows that, with a calming draught, and perhaps a small dose of a dreamless sleep potion to alleviate the discomfort while his body is healing.

Draco has none of those potions on hand. He doesn't even have water. Gingerly, he pulls Potter up, and gently drags him to the corner of their cell, trying to ignore the burning in his own limbs as he leans Potter against the wall and sags down next to him.

Now it's just a waiting game.

##

It's been a while. Perhaps several minutes. Or several hours. Or just one. Draco's not very sure. Potter still hasn't spoken a word. His rattling breaths are the only sound in the cell.

He hopes it's over for the day. That no one else is coming down again. He won't be able to take another round of Potter screaming. Let alone Potter himself actually taking the pain.

The ache in Draco's limbs is mostly gone. He'd expected as much, considering it had only been one cruciatus Umbridge had put him under. However strong or however long.

He's sure Potter doesn't have the same luxury. It's a miracle the boy isn't sobbing in residual pain. Even his breathing sounds painful.

Draco wishes he had some water.

Shifting once again, he tries to position Potter more comfortably. He knows it won't really help any, but he needs to feel like he's doing  _ something. _

The cell is cold, and Draco, not for the first time, fervently wishes they still had their cloaks. Probably just another form of extended torture on their parts. Draco hates admitting it, even to himself, but they're at least good at torturing people. They know what they're doing. It hasn't even been a full day and he already feels miserable.

Potter's eyes are closed, but Draco knows he's not sleeping. He looks too restless for that. Draco closes his eyes too, and starts naming the Potion ingredients for a nerve soother.

_ Two Moonleaves chopped to perfection _

_ One crushed black bean _

_ Both are added to the simmering base as the potion is stirred with a ten inch glass stirring rod, counterclockwise, until the potion base is a vibrant blue. _

_ Grind garlic and two ounces of Mustard seeds, crushed in a-- _

His list is interrupted when he hears footsteps. There's a split second of hope when he thinks it's Lucius. But those footsteps are distinctly not his father's. Heavier, no third click of the cane.

He almost doesn't want to open his eyes, doesn't want to see who it might be. But the thought of not knowing is almost worse, and he slowly cracks his eyes open, trying to adjust back to the dim light.

A Death Eater is standing over him. Draco didn't even hear the cell door opening. The distinctive feature, and the most disgusting one, on his face, are his yellow, rotting teeth. Somehow still managing to look too sharp to be normal- almost canine like-while half-decaying in his mouth. He's big. Bigger than Draco would have thought. Broad wide shoulders, matted shoulder length hair, a dulled silver, and his eyes, narrowed and wild. Like an animal's.

Draco doesn't know who he is, and the unknown is dangerous. He certainly looks so.

And father- Draco hates that he's thinking this, but Father isn't here.

"I thought he'd never fucking leave," the man says, finally. After staring him down for what seems like forever. His voice is almost a growl, irritated and gleeful both at once.

"See, Draco, word travels fast in here," the man glances at Potter briefly. "Whatever Lucius might have to say, you're still a traitor. And the Dark Lord certainly won't mourn a few scratches. Or some limbs. And since I cannot have Potter, " His lips stretch into a wide grin, revealing more of those yellow teeth, "Well, I can just as easily have the next best thing. The Dark Lord doesn't take very well with those who betray him. You know that, right, whelp?"

Suddenly, Draco feels a tight grip on his forearm, and for a second he panics, before realizing the hand belongs to Potter. Potter's eyes are open now, and he's glaring at the man with open hostility. It would have been more effective if he wasn't trembling so violently, or so ashen, or didn’t have tear tracks streaking down his cheeks.

The man gives a low chuckle and flicks his wand in Potter's direction. The chuckle turns into a full blown laugh when Harry violently recoils.

Something in Draco twists as he watches the man toying with Potter. And then his gaze is trained on him. It's all he can do not to shrink back against the wall.

He tenses, braces himself for a round of Cruciatus, for the blinding agony that seems to split the body apart. He expects it. Waits for it.

He doesn't expect the man to  _ lunge  _ at him, growling and snarling like an animal. Harry, or maybe it's Draco himself, let's out a high squeak, and they're both scrambling sideways, but the man is upon Draco before he can really comprehend what's happening.

Draco's head hits the ground with a loud crack and his vision swims, blacking out for a moment. And then there is a burning pain on his face, horrible burning, stinging pain. As if someone rammed a heated knife through his flesh.

He lets out a choked scream, vaguely feeling the man slip his hand  _ under his shirt, _ raking his nails down his ribs, his back arches and twin tongues of fire make their way down his torso.

Someone else is screaming too. Again. And he knows the voice. Even subdued and hoarse as it is, he knows it's Potter. Has Bellatrix come down again? He struggles, but the man’s weight on his body is too much, and everything is happening too fast.

There's a hand on his throat. Maybe two, he doesn't know. Because he can't  _ breathe.  _ He lets out strangled cries, clawing at the grip around his neck, kicks out with his legs, but his vision is tunneling out. The man's rotting teeth are right in front of his face.

Then there is a loud, ringing bang, and a flash of light.

The man rolls off of him, and Draco curls to his side, panting, trying not to sob. He is sobbing.

"What in the name of Merlin do you  _ think _ you were doing?" A voice says; shouts.

'Father,' Draco wants to gasp, but all he can do is try to gulp in air.

"Lucius," the man says, from somewhere above Draco. He's standing again.

"Fenrir, what is the meaning of this? Wasn't it made clear that none of them were to be maimed?" If Draco hadn't known his father all his life, he may have missed the undercurrent of slight hysteria in his voice. And the fact that his  _ father  _ is in hysterics, sends him down another spiral of panic. He can still feel the hands, moving down his chest, around his throat, tightening,  _ tightening- _

A hand touches his shoulder, and he jerks, almost screams. "Draco," a voice murmurs. "Drac- co."

A small part of Draco feels horrible, Potter suffered so much worse. He shouldn't be the one comforting Draco. It should be the other way around. But Draco can't wrap his mind around what just happened. Fenrir.

Fenrir Greyback. He's heard about him. He's a werewolf. He just got attacked by a werewolf.

"I'm sure the Dark Lord will understand, given what he's done," Fenrir says, and Draco shudders. The grip on his shoulder tightens. He wants to jerk away.

"You'll risk his wrath? Disobey him?"

Leave me alone,  _ leave me alone.  _ Draco wants to scream, but even if his voice  _ was  _ working properly, he's not really in a position to make any demands. Tears clog his nose, and the struggle for breath becomes worse.

His whole upper body feels like it is on fire, so does his face. And his throat feels worse than before. He shudders again. And even as pain flares, he wraps his arms around himself.

"He's gone," Harry whispers, his voice close to his ears. "He's gone, Draco."

It takes Draco a moment to realise that his wish  _ has  _ been granted, and he sobs in relief. Harry huddles closer to him, and Draco can feel Harry's limbs still shaking as he lays down, pressed next to him. Draco doesn't care, he burrows into the warmth and Harry tries his best to hold him for a few minutes. Draco feels the sticky hot blood trailing down his face, and Harry finally seems to notice it as well. It's bothering him. It feels like lava, oh his face, above all the burning and Draco wants it  _ gone. _

There's a ripping sound, and then unsteady hands are on his face. Draco cringes, squeezing his eyes shut, but Harry slowly, carefully, wipes at the blood dripping down his face. He swallows, opening his eyes, and looks up into focused green ones.

Harry seems to be putting in all his concentration into keeping his hands as steady as possible, which, admittedly, isn't much. But the touch remains gentle as he dabs most of the excess blood away and presses the cloth next to the burning strip of pain. The urge to flinch doesn’t lessen much. And then he leaves it there, his eyes glazing over in pain again as he heaves out a shaky breath.

And Draco realizes with a jolt that however injured, Harry  _ must _ be in more pain than him. Bella was at him for what felt like hours.

Draco wants to say something, but Harry's eyes are already closing. And Draco's throat feels too tight. The phantom hands are still all over him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chadwick Aaron Boseman was an amazing actor, he brought to life, not only a superhero, but a whole nation. May you rest in peace, Wakanda forever.


	16. The Pathless Woods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings for; blood, violence, torture, explicit language, implied child abuse, implied threats of rape/non-con. 
> 
> Next update on Saturday, 26th September.

_“There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,_

_There is a rapture on the lonely shore,_

_There is society, where none intrudes,_

_By the deep Sea, and music in its roar:”_

_― Lord Byron, Childe Harold's Pilgrimage_

… 

When Draco wakes up, it’s to pain. 

He lets out a small groan, and tries to roll over to his side, or at least his back to alleviate the burning in his chest. Or face. At this point, he cannot tell which is worse. He gingerly touches his cheek, then cringes at the dried blood there, scabbed over a long wound that runs down to his chin. It hadn’t stopped bleeding long into the night. Or morning. Draco doesn't quite know. He just knows that sometime into the painful haze that clouded his vision, the sluggish moving of the blood had given into dried flecks of irritation on his skin. Painful irritation. Harry hadn't dared touch those again last night. Or Draco thinks that's the case. He wasn't paying attention. 

Turning his head to the side, he looks over at Harry’s face. He almost looks peaceful, serene. Almost being the key word. The tear tracks haven’t quite disappeared from his face, and there is a crease between his brows, and the occasional trembling. Harry had slept considerably less than Draco, however much that was. 

Draco doesn’t even know if it is morning yet. The dark circles under Harry’s eyes look even more pronounced than ever, and Draco wonders if his face is any better. Then he has to suppress the urge to laugh, his fingers keep tracing the cut on his face. He's not allowing mortification to kick in, just yet. He feels disgusting.

He's just going to ignore the consequences of this. Of a _werewolf_ slashing him. He doesn't want to contemplate the outcomes. The full moons. And whether he has to go through an immeasurable amount of pain every single month. That is, if he gets to live after two days. 

So he keeps lying there on the cold hard ground, his eyes almost determinedly stitched to Harry's face. It has a very enigmatic and calming effect on him, and Draco can blissfully tune out annoyingly persistent thoughts that plague his mind. He pays attention to Harry instead. To the smaller details, ones that people never get right on a first glance. Draco feels as if his entire relationship with Harry up until now has been nothing but a very long first glance. 

As a child, he was simply too naive to see, to really look, when he acquired the gift of seeing at the age of thirteen, he was too jealous, too spiteful of Potter to use it on him. Now he and Harry share something incredibly intimate. They share pain, and Draco allows his eyes to roam every inch of Harry's skin as if it cures it of all suffering. 

The very small ridge on Harry's nose, right beneath his eyes where a lifetime of glasses have left their mark, just a small, tiny red dent, the curve of Harry's ear as it melds into his jaw, and the very small, almost unnoticeable scar under his chin, white and camouflaged into the skin. Then he looks at the real scar, the famous, lightning shaped scab. It's red and irritated. As if it has been recently carved by a knife, like the words on his hand. 

Draco wants to touch it. 

Before he can even think about moving his hand, both Harry and Draco flinch, Harry startling awake with a gasp, as a crack sounds through the air. Draco looks around wildly, heart pounding, for the source of the sound, before spotting the small shape standing in the corner, nervously smoothing out the folds of her pillowcase. 

“Master Draco,” Twinky says, looking at him with wide eyes. 

Harry is gaping. Draco isn’t faring much better. 

“What--” Draco starts, only to stop and swallow when his mouth feels too dry. 

“Master Lucius sent Twinky to give you and Mr. Harry Potter some water.” she snaps her fingers and a large pitcher of water appears in her hands, which she quickly sets down in front of them, before backing away again, wringing her hands. 

“Master Lucius also told Twinky to be giving you some-” she looks even more scared than before as she quickly blurts out, “Food. But he says not to let anyone know.” she's not looking at them, at his face, or Harry's body. 

Harry is frowning in her direction, as if he can’t quite figure out what a house elf is doing in there. To be quite honest, Draco can’t either. Death Eaters aren’t known to show this kind of hospitality to their prisoners, especially since both their deaths are kind of guaranteed in two days. 

But Twinky belongs to the Malfoys, not the Death Eaters. So, maybe, Draco shouldn’t be too surprised. And her words are catching up with him too. 'Not let anyone know.' His father is disobeying orders. 

“Right,” he says, voice low. He looks towards Harry, who is now eyeing the pitcher of water with suspicion. 

Draco moves towards them, pouring half a glass of water for Harry, “C’mon Harry. She won’t hurt you, I’ve known her all my life,” he mumbles. 

Something flashes in Harry’s eyes, too quick to decipher, before he looks back at Twinky, assessing her. Then he nods, flopping back on the floor. Draco rests a hand beneath his head, tilting it up a little and trickling water down his throat. It reminds him of a similar position, attending to Potter in that abandoned bathroom, but at that time, things had been much simpler. 

Perhaps if he’d never helped Potter, they’d-- Draco shakes his head. No. Even if some very small part of him had blamed Harry for putting them here, it had shriveled up and died as gruesome a death as his mother when Harry was being tortured.

Harry sighs a little as he finishes the glass. His hands are still trembling badly. Draco doubts he could have held the glass himself even if he’d wanted to. 

“Do you want more?” Draco asks. Harry opens his mouth, then winces, shaking his head. 

When Draco turns around towards the pitcher to get himself some water as well, Twinky is standing there with a tray in her hands. Two sandwiches and two quarter pieces of an apple. He asks her to set down the tray, she shakes her head violently, her large ears flapping. “No, no one must know.” 

Draco sighs, and nods. Quietly gulping down water, stopping himself from moaning in pleasure as the cool water slides down his sore throat. The soreness couldn't only be as a result of thirst. He probably has an impressive ring of bruises around his throat that attribute to the pain too. 

Twinky is still standing away from them, and he sighs. He doesn’t have the energy to make his way over. Harry isn’t even an option. “Come here.” 

Twinky looks startled, and then embarrassed, biting down on her lips as she quickly makes her way over to them, mumbling apologies. Draco ignores them and snatches the food off the tray, propping Harry up against the wall, shushing him when he makes a half choked sound, choking on air. There's nothing else. 

“Harry,” Draco says, breaking off a bite sized piece from the sandwich, “Eat.” When he is halfway through the sandwich, Harry makes a gesture with his hands, insisting he can feed himself. Draco is skeptical, but still places the other half in his shaky hands before moving onto his own. 

He is surprised to see Twinky still standing there, and looks at her, about to ask what’s she waiting for, when she asks, “How is you doing, Master Draco?”

Draco’s first instinct is to snap at her, ‘How do you think I’m doing?’ but he holds his tongue, turning her words over in his head. He would have thought Father asked her to inquire, but if that was so, she’d have asked earlier. And phrased it differently. 

Before he can answer her, Harry’s hoarse voice breaks through, “What’s your name?” 

Twinky looks just as taken aback at the question as Draco, but then quickly composes herself and answers, “Twinky, sir.” She had always been the best elf in the Malfoy household. 

“Twinky,” Harry repeats, then, apparently satisfied, goes back to nibbling on his sandwich. Draco tries not thinking about the fact that the elf had already uttered her name at least twice while rambling. Harry is exhausted, he gets a leeway.

“We’re not fine, Twinky,” Draco says, exhausted as well. He needs a lifetime of sleep to get over the weariness in his bones. A lifetime of sleep… well, technically he is going to get that in two days. Draco hopes that death would have some semblance of peace in it. “But thanks for asking,”

He’s never thanked a house-elf in his life. The fatigue is to be blamed.

Twinky's lips quiver, but she nods, shrinking back a little. “I will- I will take my leave now, sirs.” 

“Thank you, Twinky.” Harry calls out, and her head snaps back to him, mouth opening and closing twice, before she settles on another slightly teary nod and disappears with a crack. 

They sit and eat in silence for a while. The sandwich, ham and cheese; Draco’s favourite, sits heavily in his stomach. 

The silence drags on long after they're finished, and in the midst of trying _not to_ think about the heaviness on his face Draco becomes aware of the shift in silence. It's dimmer, in a way and Draco's ears pick up on it almost immediately.

His eyes flick over to Potter, and they linger, taking in the image of the other boy intently staring at his lap. Nothing looks wrong with him, except for what takes Draco a second to notice. The look in Potter's eyes. Or rather, the lack of any particular acknowledgement in his eyes. Draco is instantly drawn to them, sweeping his eyes over Harry's body. It takes him a moment too long to notice why the scene is mesmerizing to him. 

Harry isn't shaking as much. It's as if there's only half of a presence in his body, and the tremors that run down his arms and legs seem half hearted, a natural, uninterrupted cycle. While Potter's eyes stay glazed, somehow glassy in a way.

In this respect, Draco almost considers snapping his fingers in front of his eyes, just to see what would happen. But he's wary of whether it would do Potter any good. You weren't supposed to wake a sleepwalker. 

But Potter isn't sleeping. He is… away. 

Draco had never seen anyone that way, and it's momentarily alarming. Potter is absent. He feels absent too. And Draco is intrigued, latched on, on what could possibly string Harry away from this cell, away from his body. Unconsciously, he scoots closer to him, waiting to see whether Potter's reflexes acknowledge Draco's proximity to him. They don't. And Draco keeps staring. He's peeved by it. 

What on earth is going on with Harry? 

The better question, Draco realizes a beat later, is _how_ on Earth is Harry managing this. Draco frowns. He doesn't have a name for it. He refuses to call it catatonic paralysis. It's not. Somehow he knows this. But _this_ doesn't really have a name yet. 

It cannot be the torture. Draco knows better than that. He just fed Potter, they exchanged words and he seemed sane enough. Besides, Draco has seen people who had gone mad due to the Cruciatus curse. Their eyes are never void of any emotions, they're overfilled with a conflicting abundance of them. Too much for anyone to handle, and the truth is, they don't. That's why they're called insane. 

Harry's eyes are just glazed.

"Harry," he carefully keeps his voice mellow and not askance. He wonders, idly if the other boy can hear him from wherever he currently is. Draco envies that Potter has the ability to be anywhere but in a cell, in Draco Malfoy's basement. 

Daydreaming is too simple of a name for it. The vibes that Draco is getting from Potter is wildly different. Tangible. 

He observes as Potter's eyes don't shift and his pupils stay the same. Draco cautiously snaps his fingers near Potter's ears. Nothing. 

He gulps and looks around their cell. He cannot panic. He's not even sure whether he should. He has no idea what's going with Potter. What he does know, is that the boy is in no immediate danger, even though he's not answering to any natural instinctive reflexes, that he feels _absent_ from the cell and… that's all he has. 

He already has the panic room in his mind filled to the brim with Greyback's assault, the possible side effects of last night and the fact that this might just be the last two days of his life. He has no room for Potter.

"Harry," he calls louder, minutes later, fixedly staring at Potter as the boy stares at his lap, this time wincing as the action pulls at the scabs on his face. He reaches a hand and physically shakes the boy's shoulder. He doesn't feel intrusive, or uncomfortably self conscious as he does this. He hadn't considered touching Harry to startle him out of his ' mindset' and the fact that Potter's warm skin shifts under his fingers at last is such a blissful relief. 

Harry's eyes snap up, staring back into his, clear and filled with expression. 

Draco barely restrains a sigh of relief. 

"Fish do blink," is what Draco hears Harry mutter, before he completely straightens up. 

He raises his eyebrows. "What?"

Harry waves him off with a shaking hand. "Nothing important. Just a goldfish matter," 

Draco stares at him and Harry looks right back at him in response, unblinking and unfazed by the longevity of their staring contest. 

"What is it?" Harry asks and Draco holds the stare only for a beat longer before slowly shaking his head. Harry doesn't know. Either he is unaware of this little incident of his, or he doesn't think that Draco's noticed. Or maybe, and most interestingly, Harry Potter doesn't give a shit about what Draco thinks about him at the moment, and is just blurting out a natural, automatic response as a result of Draco's eerie staring. 

"Nothing." Draco says, very slowly. "I was bored," 

The other boy's chuckle surprises him, and Draco raises his eyebrows but Harry keeps on laughing. "Bored," the boy sniggers. "We're in a prison cell and you're bored?" 

Draco shrugs, noticing Harry looking at his face. Then he looks away, uncomfortable. 

“You’ve still got a lot of blood on your face,” Harry says quietly. 

Draco winces, then stops as it hurts, “I guess.” 

“Come here,” Harry pats the floor on his side, before quickly adding, “And bring the pitcher.” 

Draco frowns, “What--” Harry shakes his head, patting the ground more insistently. 

Draco follows, for a lack of a better thing to do. When he moves to take the glasses, Harry tells him not to bother. He quickly settles down beside Harry, the warmth from his body is sinfully comforting. 

Draco’s lips quirk when Harry starts ripping at the lower half of his shirt, already ragged in places from where he’d torn it last night. But then concern takes over, “You’ll be cold.” he says. 

“It won’t really make a difference, the shirt was too big anyway.” The strips in his hands are uneven, and Harry grimaces. But Draco is impressed, he hadn’t thought he would be able to do much at all with his hands.

Getting up on his knees, Harry shuffles over to kneel in front of him, and if Draco were a better person, he’d have told Harry to lie back down. But he doesn’t. He lets himself be soothed by the way Harry wets the cloth and starts dabbing it against his face, wiping away the dried blood. It almost hurts worse than last night, when he’d been high on adrenaline.

But he manages to keep most of his whimpers to himself. He still doesn’t feel like his pain means much compared to what Harry went through, must still be feeling. 

When Harry is done he settles back on his heels, discarding the bloodied strip, and looks over at Draco, gaze settling on his blood soaked shirt.

“I didn’t clean it last night,” he says. 

“It’s alright.”

“No, it’s not. Open your shirt,” Harry says, eyes determined as he takes another strip and soaks it in water. 

Draco purses his lips and shakes his head. He doesn’t want to see the damage. But another look from Harry, and he can’t refuse him. How could he? With the determined expression on his pale, too thin face, and hands that are so gentle despite their tremors. He’s taken aback by this.

Draco heaves a sigh before moving his hands to unbutton his shirt, shuddering slightly. But when he moves to open it, it doesn’t move. Breath hitching, he pulls a little harder, wincing when the shirt is stuck to his wounds, and then gasping when the wince catches on the cut at his cheek. 

Harry grasps his wrists and moves them to the side, quickly wetting the areas on his shirt where it is sticking to his skin, and the shirt itself, and while it made pulling away slightly easier, he still hisses when Harry attempts it. 

He looks up at Draco’s face apologetically, murmuring a quick “Sorry.” and then he _yanks_ the cloth away. Draco is left too breathless from the sudden sharp pain to even cry out. 

“What the fuck,” Draco says as soon as he can. 

“Easier that way, like ripping off the bandaid.” Harry smiles, looking a little sheepish, until he glances down at his chest, where two almost identical lines had snaked down the length of half his torso. So covered in blood it’s difficult to distinguish where they begin or end. 

He gets to work quickly, but tenderly, as he wipes down more blood. It hurts a lot more than his cheek did, perhaps because there’s more blood, perhaps because it didn’t receive the treatment last night. 

There is a birthmark below the left side of his collarbone. Draco has always hated it. It’s a halfmoon shape, the colour of rust. He stares at it for a while as Harry works. 

Draco’s eyes are squeezed shut and he is panting for breath by the end of it. God, it hurts so much. Almost as if someone is still weilding a knife, ripping through skin as he lay there, helpless.

“Remus, um, Professor Lupin is a werewolf,” Harry says, slightly fumbling with the cloth. Draco bats his hands away and starts buttoning up the shirt, cringing slightly.

“I know,” Draco tries to muster up a scowl, but fails, brows pinching together in pain. 

“Yeah, he’s really nice, not at all like… Greyback. You know, just for reference.”

“He is still a werewolf and I might be one too,” Draco’s voice is flat and not half as bad as he’d expected. 

“No, I don’t think it works like that. He didn’t bite you last night and these are shallow wounds, not deep enough for a werewolf’s nails to really get in there, and it wasn’t even the full moon.”

Draco stares at him. “At least that’s how I think it works,” the other boy mumbles.

“Well, I suppose we wouldn’t know anyway. He’ll be here in two days.”

Harry, much to his surprise, shrugs. 

“Two days is forty eight hours. A lot can happen in forty eight hours.”

“You talk as if you know a way out of here.” He ignores the hope sparking in his heart. 

“I don’t.” Draco’s heart sinks, but Harry continues, “I’m just incredibly, foolishly lucky. I know it seems insane… but I have a good feeling about this.”

“Umbridge was a death eater,” Harry shoots him a look.

“Yes, I got that much.”

“Rosier was just randomly strolling around in the school. Dumbledore is as good as gone, do you have any idea what those mean, Harry?”

“I’m not a moron,” he grumbles.

“Well, let me highlight it for you anyway,” Draco starts, straightening up slightly, as if to increase the weight of his words, “It means that there is _no escaping_ this. If Umbridge has infiltrated the Ministry into letting her interfere in Hogwarts then that means she and by proxy, the Dark Lord, have essentially infiltrated two of the most important wizarding organizations in Great Britain. He has outsmarted us. By far. Checkmate.”

“You know I have a funny feeling that you and Ron would get along,” Draco opens his mouth. Closes it, then opens it again.

“Did you even hear me?”

“Of course I did. I meant it on a strategic level. He’s really into chess and strategy too. You’re kind of similar.”

“Potter,” Draco slumps back down. Maybe the tortures did affect Harry on a more psychological level. 

“There’s always a way out of anything. I know that from experience. If our gig is up, then my fate would be just as gruesome as yours, if not worse. At least you’ll get to die. I’m the one who has to live with the guilt of killing you and dooming the wizarding world.” 

Draco sucks in a breath, “You’re not killing me.”

“You’re right. Just like I didn’t kill Cedric, or the Dursleys and the same way my parents’ death wasn’t my fault. At some point, you all have to realize that I don’t need to be the murderer in order to be responsible for someone’s death. If you weren’t helping me, then you wouldn’t be here. It’s as easy as that.” Harry’s words, said so simply, as if he were stating mere facts, ‘ _The sun rises from the east,’_ sent a thrill of unease through him. 

“You just said that you had a good feeling about this,” he settles, after contemplating his reply. 

“I do, but that doesn’t mean that I’m an idiot. There are two certain variables at the moment, either we will die or we won’t. If we do end up dying I would be responsible, if we end up getting out alive, then congratulations, I would also be the reason why we’d be fugitives.”

“I don’t blame you for this, Harry.” The name sounds weird on his tongue, he hasn’t really ever used it, “I forced you into it.”

“You didn’t force me into helping me. We both know how ridiculous that sounds. You helped me because I let you. And we’re here because I didn’t end it when I was meant to do so,”

“God,” Draco starts, throwing his hands up, only to wince and put them back down, “Stop the pity party already,”

“What?” Harry looks taken aback.

“You just said that we have forty eight hours left, are you going to spend that time wallowing?” He doesn’t know when the roles reversed, from him wallowing to Harry, but they have. 

“What else is there to do between torture and cleaning up each other’s wounds?” Put that way, it makes everything sound even more terrible. This time, the scowl comes easy. 

“I haven’t the faintest," he snaps in absolute honesty. "Just tell me something different,”

Harry bites his lip for a beat. “Anything?”

“Anything!”

“Did you know that the moon is moving away from the Earth at the rate of four centimeters per year?” Draco blinks. Then thinks it over. 

“It does? But the moon doesn’t look smaller,”

Harry laughs, “It wouldn’t. I heard it in the telly last summer while I was painting the windows.”

“What is a telly, and why on earth would you be painting windows?”

“Telly is short for Television.” Harry is patient as he explains, something that wouldn’t really have been possible before… all this. “It’s a radio of some sort but has moving images on it, and I was painting the windows because Uncle Vernon said I had to, as a chore.”

“So you just picked up a brush and--”

Harry imitates the act with an invisible brush, dramatically dunking it into an also invisible bucket as his eyes shine with amusement. “And I dunked it into the paint bucket and started painting the windows," he laughs again, "Seriously? I just told you that the moon is moving away by itself and this is what you're intrigued about? 

“They both sound equally baffling. I’m being honest. Tell me another,”

But before Harry can open his mouth once more, clanking sounds interrupt them, and the sharp clicks of high heels against the damp stones echo around their cell. Harry drops his eyes and gulps. Draco curses under his breath and scoots closer to Harry as Bellatrix finally comes into view.

Draco’s eyes sweep across the cell, looking for a weapon, something, anything, but the only thing he notices with dismay is that the pitcher and glasses have disappeared. 

“It’ll be okay,” That’s what Harry tells him, surprisingly, as Draco’s desperate gaze comes back to him. They both know who Bella is really here to torment. Harry seems as if he wants to say more but by then Bella is already in the cell, a stone cold look on her face as she dispassionately points her wand at Harry and the screaming starts anew. 

Draco hates his life. 

##

Currently, as of this moment, Harry has three different revelations regarding his predicament. 

The first and most obvious one, is that Harry’s pain limit has reached a new, unexplored high that he’s not sure anyone has ever reached yet in the history of the human kind. It’s a raw, unfiltered kind of pain that Harry’s mind only perceives as pure static, blasting into his ears, and rupturing his eardrums at an alarming rate. He’s not sure whether there’s a level of pain above this one. He’s not sure whether he wants to know.

The second one, is that despite that endless drone of pain that shakes his body, in the most ironic sense of the word, Harry is acutely aware of Draco Malfoy staring at him the entire time, between half lidded eyes, from the corner of the cell, where Rosier also stood when it wasn’t his turn to play. Harry doesn’t know why, but Draco watching him suffer, is more embarrassing, and nerve wracking than he had realized. Harry knows that on a sub conscious level, he doesn’t give a flying fuck that Draco is watching as he screams and writhes on the stone cold floor, but in the same instance, he has to constantly stifle the urge to yell at the other boy, just to tell him to “LOOK AWAY! DON’T LOOK AT THIS!”

The sight isn’t a pretty one, Harry is sure of it. 

The last but in no way the least important one, was that Harry, according to an enraged imaginary Sirius, standing in the corner, and shouting abuse, is a natural born killer. And that killing Bellatrix, in the grand scheme of things would really benefit the war effort and lessen his suffering. Harry has no breath left to argue with his violent imaginations, and he’s frankly too gone to respond with any ounce of decorum. So he doesn’t. He keeps screaming because if he doesn’t, if he shuts off that one last outlet then he’s sure that he’ll lose it. 

‘I’m sure I wouldn’t mind in real life, her being my cousin and all,’ Sirius’s voice is barely heard over his own screaming. Harry is tired. ‘Even as children she was such a bitch. She used to yank my hair, casted stinging jinxes at little Reggi all the time,’

Draco is still watching. As if he cannot look away. He’s not morbidly fascinated by Harry, Harry knows that look. He’s just mortified. Harry really really wishes he would look away. 

“Ohh, Harry, I just love it when you scream,” Bella says as she finally lowers her wand, only for a bit. “Like that halfblood snack Ruddie and I shared two weeks ago. She screamed so loudly, and she did it with style, do you know what I mean?”

No, Harry wants to growl. No I don’t, and fuck you. 

“Hard to believe that some people don’t even know how to scream rightly. Isn’t that right, Evan?”

“Are you asking me for personal experience?” is the man’s bereft reply and Harry rolls on the floor, facing away so that Draco wouldn’t see his face, damp in perspiration and his own drool. It’s disgusting. 

“Oh don’t spoil the fun,” Bella steps over Harry and the side of her left heel momentarily digs into Harry’s fingers. Harry is honestly too worn out to yell in pain. 

“What do you expect of filthy blood, Bella?” Rosier replies. Harry imagines Sirius spitting in the man’s face. 

‘That’s too vulgar,’ Sirius responds. ‘Let’s try that spitting idea, if I were to turn into a dragon,’

“Cannot do anything right, and I know from experience. Potter’s muggle relatives for instance,” there’s a crunching against gravel as Rosier steps closer to them. “Or rather two slabs of fat and a sack of bones, wriggling little creatures didn’t even have time to open their gobs before I blew them up. Do you hear that Potter? How does that make you feel?”

Harry groans, and with strenuous effort, croaks out, “Screw,” he pants for breath, “You.” He is vaguely aware of Draco stiffening, eyes going wide with shock. _Stop staring._

Rosier chuckles, and the sound sends a sudden wave of shivers down Harry’s spine. “I would have,” Evan says. “But Lucius and our Lord have made it abundantly clear that you aren’t to be touched.”

‘Oh, the nerve of this guy,’ Harry wholeheartedly agrees with Sirius, his horrified face no doubt reflecting Sirius's. 

“Do you want your fun or not?” Harry cannot see, but Bellatrix’s tone is dry and almost cooled with an air of unimpressed impatience. 

“Oh, only if you insist. Crucio!”

Lucius Malfoy is there too. Harry thinks that he is. That or Imaginary Sirius now has a companion with him. The man isn’t staring at him, unlike his son, but rather at Draco’s back, from what Harry’s blurry and wracking vision can tell him. He’s leaning on his cane, his back straight as an arrow as the torture goes on and on and on. 

It’s like a moving carousel. Harry has never been on those. He’s seen a few as a child. The ones with the moving, dancing horses, that went round and round in a circle, the kind that only Dudley was allowed to ride. Harry is on top of one of those horses now, going up and down, up and down as he hangs onto the railing for dear life. 

‘I’ll take you to a magical theme park sometime, ask the real, less gorgeous version of me, and if he isn’t too much of an idiot, he’ll arrange something.’ 

Harry doesn’t bloody care. He wants it to stop. He’s past the point of caring about smacking his head back into the ground, or shaking as his every nerve is set alight. 

‘There you little asshole, feel it burn,’ oh and how it burns.

The fourth revelation reaches Harry when he’s mere seconds away from passing out for real. And it’s the most haunting one so far. It’s quite simple too. Harry’s body, or anybody’s body for that matter, does not keep a memory of pain. Not even an aftereffect. Once they stop and leave, Harry is going to forget. It’s a horrifying truth, that one can forget this kind of pain. How anyone could ever forget. But he will, his body won’t, not in the physical sense of the word, he would be shaking as if he were having an earthquake for some time, maybe even the rest of his life, but the pain? It’ll be gone, nothing but a memory until they decide to come back again. 

It’s this fourth one, that pushes Harry down and he finally lets his conscious mind leap out of his grasp. 

##

When he wakes up, he is still warm. But not the burning, scorching heat from before. He makes a noise in his throat, before quickly stifling it, wide eyes darting around the grey corners of the cell, as if Bellatrix is about to pop out with a loud ‘Boo!’ before proceeding to reduce him to a writhing, screaming mess again. 

Then he notices that the warmth is really comfortable. He could just close his eyes and fall asleep there if he wanted. If it weren’t for the infernal pain still coursing through his veins, not as bad as before, but noticeable. 

Draco has one arm flung over Harry, their legs touching, as they huddle together in one relatively warm corner. It takes Harry the entirety of five minutes to think that perhaps it IS the heat coming off of Draco that’s making them so hot. 

Harry frowns, shifting weakly in his place as he grasps Draco’s hand with his own, which is too hot. Too hot to be normal, and he is mumbling in his sleep too, brows pulled together, as if in pain. Or perhaps having a nightmare.

Harry lifts a shaking hand to Draco’s shoulder and grasps it in a pathetically weak grip, “Draco, Draco, wake up, it’s a dream,” he murmurs quietly into his ears, trying not to be loud. It’s not hard, given he can’t really do much more than produce a hoarse squeak from his throat anyway. 

Swallowing hard, Harry firmly- or as firmly as he can- shakes Draco. Draco’s lips part and he lets out a small groan, but otherwise doesn’t break. Harry moves his hand to his cheek and almost flinches back.

Draco is burning up.

Harry helplessly looks at his flushed cheeks, his bloodstained shirt and back to his face, his eyes moving restlessly under his lids. He probably has an infection. And while Harry is used to dealing with injuries with almost no supplies at all, even he doesn’t have anything to help him with. The water pitcher is gone. 

He pats Draco’s uninjured cheek, gently at first, then a little more roughly. Draco’s eyelids flutter, and he mumbles something incoherent. 

This is bad, Harry knows it. This is really bad.

“Draco? Draco, can you hear me?” 

Draco groans once more and Harry swears, struggling to get on his knees before the boy. He has been an idiot. He’s been so worried and preoccupied with his own torture, and the werewolf thing that he completely forgot about infections. 

He has nothing to treat this. Not even water. He bites his lip, and reaches to Draco once more. “You need to wake up,” Harry curses his shaking hand and does it again. It might as well be pointless, Draco is like an inferno already, he could be delirious at this point. 

“You have a fever, I don’t know what to do, Draco!” 

The blond groans once more and then frowns, as if bothered by a fly. Harry presses the back of his hand to his forehead and then as modestly as he can manage, sneaks a glance through Draco’s unbuttoned shirt. The slashes are red and inflamed. Of course they are, they’re infected. 

“Oh no. No, no.” If Harry had been having trouble breathing before, he definitely can’t breathe now. 

“Har’?”

“You’re awake, good.” he sucks in a desperate gulp of air as relief floods his veins at hearing the sound of Draco’s voice, before worry takes over again. 

“Wha’?”

“No, don’t get up,” he pushes the other boy back down, as gently as he can. “It’s going to hurt a lot, because we left them untreated, I’m so sorry, they look infected. We need help, like proper medical help, Draco.”

“Hm,” he grunts, his eyes closing again. 

“Oh no. Do you have a plan? Anything?” then he remembers who he's speaking to. “Forget it, don’t speak, just… just don't die, alright?”

Draco, of course, cannot answer, and only grumbles in response before slumping back down on the ground into another restless slumber. Meanwhile, Harry spends his time slumped against the wall, nerves frayed from more than just the cruciatus. 

He has to call someone to treat Draco. They wouldn’t let him just die like this, not while Voldemort is still a day away. But, oh merlin, Harry really doesn’t want to push his luck by calling in a sadistic bastard who might just make things worse. 

Rosier wouldn’t help. Bellatrix might, only after she’s had an extra round with him. Harry cannot afford either in this state, and Draco is burning up already. He needs to notify someone who might care. Maybe Lucius Malfoy. But how?

‘You’re panicking, Harry,’ Sirius says from his corner and Harry growls, his trembling hand slipping on the walls as he sinks down to the ground. Even though he’s sitting down, his toes feel on the ledge of the rooftop once more, on the soft gravel. 

“Of course I am, I have no idea what to do, he might die, oh fuck. He really might. I need to call someone, but no one would hear us, and if they did they might not help him. I don’t know what to do. This isn’t good. This is really bad. Fuck. Fuck,”

‘He looks fine,’

“He’s burning up! It’s an infection, not a scraped knee. Infection kills, I don’t know why or how, but I know that much. Infection kills. What do I do,”

'Lower the fever, obviously, '

But it's not really that easy. What would Imaginary Sirius know? He's not real. 

After a few minutes of periodically freaking out, and crouching over to check on Draco’s rising temperature, Harry really cannot handle any more of this.

“I’m going to do it. We need to take our chance,” even though he’s fairly certain that the cells are noise proofed. He has to try. They could give them some water, at the very least. It could at least help lower the fever. 

'Use your head, Harry, '

"I am!" Harry snaps. "I need to call for someone!" 

'But that someone has to matter. Who can really hear you over the silencing wards? '

Harry is getting tired of this game. "I don't know," he grits out. "Let me be, alright? I need to help him!" 

'You need to help yourself before helping him. I would know. I'm a figment of your imagination, and even your mind is telling you to slow down. It'll save time later on, '

"How?" He paces, clenches his hands, he can feel them shaking, his both arms are seized by it, his breathing keeps stagnating. He might just pass out.

Sirius follows the rapid pacing. 'Listen to your instincts,' he has the audacity to say and Harry snaps.

"How?!" He screams, "It's all so easy for you to say when you don't have to deal with another fucking death you imaginary piece of crap--"

'Harry,' Sirius looks at him. 'Focus,'

His voice dies in his throat. "He cannot die, I cannot kill another...Sirius,"

'Kiddo.' Sirius steps closer, and if he were real Harry might have actually felt his breath against his face. 'Focus,'

Harry gulps, clenches his hands and looks at Draco again, he cannot freak out, he wants to, really really wants to but he won't, because for the second time in his life, he feels as if a force he can only describe as ‘Draco Malfoy’ had sneaked up on him on his rooftop once more. He's on the rooftop, not in the cell, the wind whips against his face and his hands aren't shaking. He's standing on the ledge, only an inch away, the crowd bustling beneath his feet before the force suddenly propels Harry off the rooftop again, and this time, instead of falling headfirst into an endless sea of crowds, Harry isn’t falling at all. Instead, he is in a place he has never been before. 

An unknown, unexplored patch of his mind that was entirely new to Harry, new in imagery and sensation. He looks around the dark woods in absolute silence, not trembling, but rather, steady and calm in the face of the unknown. 

Only as he looks down at the dark blue grass crunching beneath his feet, does Harry realize that this place might be the most magical place he has ever been to, and the irony of it, the fact that the most magical place he has ever seen only exists in a distant place that is only in his head, is not lost on him. 

He looks at the leaves, and the way they glitter without any assistant from a light source as he walks beneath them. He feels strangely subdued. Only a second ago, he was on the verge of a complete breakdown and now, he’s breathless in the face of something so beautiful and serene. 

It’s night, and Harry cannot actually see the sky above the canopy of enormous trees and lush vibrant leaves that extend infinitely above him. He doesn’t care, he knows this place already, like the back of his hand, he’s not lost or scared.

He just needs to find the stream. 

Crickets and tiny night owls interrupt the sound of his steps onto the crispy grass and despite being mildly repelled by insects, an aversion he has had since early childhood, Harry doesn't mind the thought of close proximity to them in the slightest. He just needs to find the stream, and then get back to Draco, to help him. 

He hears it in the distance, not from a particular direction, but from every direction at once, and somehow Harry still knows he has to head to the left, just under the old giant roots of a beech tree, make his way through the tall stalks and there he would see it, a small trickle that runs from the edge of his vision to as far as his eyes can see. 

The trickling sound isn't just the water, Harry notices as he gets closer, it's a unison whisper that fades into the sound of water itself, like a thousand tiny voices all bunched together. It sends a shiver down his spine. 

Harry regards the small, clear stream and then kneels to run a careful hand into the trickle. It’s cool against his fingers, and just by staring at it, Harry can tell that it’s the cleanest, most purified water he has ever seen. 

“Twinky,” That seems to be the word that the stream is trying to push to the forefront of his mind, as it glitters under the imaginary moonlight. Harry sighs and then almost smacks his own forehead for being so stupid. 

Of course, Twinky. 

He huffs a noiseless chuckle, and mildly narrows his eyes at the small, almost mote sized purple flowers, bunching near the stream from both sides, he’s transfixed by them, and as he looks down at the rushing water, Harry vaguely wonders if the Draco like force would ever push him down into the stream the same way he pushed Harry off the rooftop, send Harry cascading down to another world, or maybe just down an unseen depth in the stream that will only drown him to death.

Almost as if readying himself for the impact, Harry closes his eyes, waits and then opens them again. No one pushes him. Even though he can feel Draco, this time the dizziness of disorientation or instability doesn’t grip him as he falls helplessly. 

Draco is here. Lying beside him, easily in Harry’s grasp, and Harry doesn’t hesitate as he lifts a hand to the boy’s shoulder, and gently shakes him. 

“Draco?” the boy mumbles, still irrationally hot to touch, and flushed in the face. Harry tries once more but the response is much about the same. 

With a desolate look around their dreary cell walls, Harry wonders whether Twinky will answer to him instead of his masters. 

“I might as well try this,” he mutters to the unconscious boy next to him and raises his chin.

With a deep mighty breath, Harry prepares himself. “Twinky?”

Nothing happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who may not have noticed, we have posted another chapter in our side story, _‘i’ll trade you a memory’ _, taking place between chapter 14 and 15, featuring the Parkinson moms.__
> 
> Thanks a bunch to our Beta Amar for editing, whom we shamefully forgot to mention during the last update! He's doing a great job, any other typos are solely our own fault.


	17. Well Meant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings for; blood, violence, torture, explicit language, character injury.
> 
> As much as we love this franchise, the characters and what each stand for, and will continue finishing this series and other projects, we in no way condone J.K.R. regarding her vulgarity and offensive view towards the Transgender community.
> 
> We in no way support her words or ideas, we're living in the twenty-first century. Not the 1500s.
> 
> We shouldn't hurt other people with our words, nor actions, in any way. Please be kind to each other, and choose the people who influence you wisely.
> 
> Next update on 10th October, Saturday.

_“war is a slippery slope._

_what would you do,_

_becomes,_

_what will you do,_

_becomes,_

_my god, what have you done?”_

_-_ you meant so well. _(Anonymous)_

... 

Lucius considered privacy a delicacy these days, the same way he had considered his father’s company as such as a young boy, since he barely got to meet the man as a youth, and even later on as an adult. 

Privacy within the confines of his own house was hard to come by these days and Lucius used every spare moment while holding his breath. The notion was ridiculously condescending. Every hidden corner he glanced at, there was something gazing back at him. It made him somewhat glad that Narcissa didn't live to see these days. 

Once he had made sure that he was truly alone, the rest came easy. 

The first five minutes were always vital, in every task imaginable, Lucius knew that once they were managed, then the rest of the task was easily determined. And as Rosier, that slimy wriggling creature, had manhandled his son and Potter down to the dungeons, Lucius was left alone in his office once again, and he hadn't wasted any time. He swiftly walked back to his desk, leaned his cane against the chair and opened the second left drawer. The golden quill lay innocuously, rolling as the drawer was opened. He had taken it and snatched the parchment he was attempting to write a letter upon only a few minutes prior to the entire mess. He had kept the words brief and simple; 

_Those you seek are in our possession only for a short amount of time. Assistance is required shall one take the risk._

Then he had rolled the parchment into an extremely thin roll, shrunk it to the size of his thumb and then slid it into the open nook of the golden quill. Sufficiently hidden out of sight. 

Just as nonchalantly as before, even as his mind pressed down on him to mind the ticking seconds and Rosier’s hands on his son, Lucius walked to his fireplace, and the floo flared. He dropped the golden quill into the flame while whispering the location. 

Only one other person knew the significance of that quill and knew that Lucius would never willingly part with such a precious gift from his beloved wife. 

He was counting on that. On fulfilling the last thing his Narcissa has asked of him. 

_‘Protect our dragon, my love. Promise me,’_

He wished he knew the hidden meaning behind those words before he came to know why she would make him promise such a thing. 

For the first time in a very long while, Lucius felt good about doing the right thing. 

##

Nothing happens. 

Not at first, anyway. Harry sits in a clipped silence, holding his breath and waiting for a sharp cracking sound for almost a full minute before he slumps down. 

“Twinky, please,” he tries again, this is his only hope. He has nothing to treat Draco with, and it could be hours before anyone comes down for another round. Harry knows that logically, this should work. He has called on Dobby many times before- although as a free elf- but every bone in his body is telling him that this has to work. Including the forest. The forest _has_ to be right. 

Just as the third-minute passes and Harry’s slumped down next to Draco, he hears a subdued crack, he peels one eye open and stares at the empty dark corner with bated breath. He hadn’t imagined that noise. 

“Mr. Harry Potter sir has to be very quiet,” a squeaky voice says from the opposite side of the cell and Harry scrambles to sit up. There she stands, eerily quiet and wringing her hands. 

“Twinky I need your help,” Harry furiously whispers as he quietly crawls his way to the timid house elf. “Draco, your master-" 

“Twinky knows sir, Harry Potter, must really keep his voice down,”

“You need to help him, he’s really hurt and he has a fever. He’ll die, Twinky.”

Twinky’s huge eyes dart to Draco and back to Harry, the wringing hands get more frantic.

“Master has allowed Twinky to look over Master Draco,” she quietly says, so quietly in fact that Harry can barely hear her. “Master has allowed Twinky to come even though she is not allowed.”

“Master?” Harry purses his lips. That has to be Lucius Malfoy. Of course, he wouldn’t let his son die. “He sent you?”

Twinky shakes her head vigorously and comes to stand near Draco’s head, meekly inspecting the boy’s sweat coated face as she wrestles with her pillowcase. “Twinky hears Mr. Harry Potter sir calling and Twinky goes to Master, for permission! And Master says that to help if Young Master is being in danger or Young Harry Potter is dying.”

That’s interesting, Harry thinks, but pushes the thoughts aside to deal with them later at a better time and place. “Draco needs help, Twinky. I need water, lots of water and… um a rag, and anything that could reduce his fever. Could you get me those things?”

Twinkly looks extremely unsure. “Twinky doesn’t know. She checks with Master now, if Master tells Twinky to help, she will,”

“Alright, thank you, Twinky.”

Twinky disappears and Harry sags down once more. Lately, it takes so much effort to stay upright, and Harry would much rather lie down, with his eyes closed and his mind not concerned by anything. He wants the luxury of laying around and doing nothing, but with Draco’s condition and his own predicament, he doubts he’ll ever get to have such a thing. 

She returns once another full minute passes, balancing a small basin in her hands with a long rag thrown over the bowl, she approaches the boys and puts the basin down with meticulous care. 

"Master says this is all Harry Potter sir is allowed to have, and Twinky is to retrieve the basin and rag in two hours time before Mistress Bella arrives. Master says to give Harry Potter a child's dose of fever reducing potion," she hands Harry the gleaming red vial and steps back, throwing a forlorn glance down at Draco. But Harry isn't following her gaze, and is instead watching the measly amount of potion rolling inside the vial. It's pathetic. Not even nearly enough for a child. 

"Why a low dose?" Harry asks the timid elf and she vehemently starts shaking her head. 

"Twinky does not know, Sir," she stammers out and Harry nods, carefully, meticulously lowering the vial on the ground. He doesn't want to break the vial by accident. For some reason, he doesn't seem to be able to get his hands to stop shaking. 

It's quite hard for him to comprehend, it's as if his body is trying to contain an inner earthquake that would cause havoc if unleashed. Harry wishes it to unleash, if only the tremors would cease. 

Slowly, and without looking at the hateful sight of his hands, Harry reaches for the rag and dips it in the bowl. 

"You can leave now." He dismisses the elf. "Thank you Twinky." 

The crack that resounds in the cell is almost inaudible. Harry doesn't care anyway. His sole attention is focused on Draco. 

"You really helped me out there," He tells the unconscious boy as he dabs his face clean, cringing at the thin trails of scabbed blood that have formed tendrils on Draco's face, the source of the infection. "Or I did. Not sure what the deal with the forest thing was all about." 

Harry washes them away, and dispassionately watches as blood lazily starts bubbling out of the inflamed wound. He really should have asked for a disinfectant, while he was at it. 

He doesn't dare call Twinky again, this had to do for now. Just thinking about this makes Harry's hands tremble harder, because maybe, just maybe, he shouldn't be treating Draco at all. Maybe this death would be more merciful than the one awaiting them once Voldemort returned. 

Harry clenches his freaking hands, and breathes. Just breathes for a moment. 

This could be the most peaceful equivalent of a death Draco Malfoy could get. He's running a high fever, so he's probably not even registering the pain, it would be just like falling asleep. Harry could just...leave it untreated. Let nature take its course. Or even aid it in the way. 

It sickens him. The mere idea sickens him and Harry wants to cry. He doesn't, he keeps cleaning the wound and pointedly starts thinking about something else.

The forest.

The forest is new. Refreshingly so. Harry had no idea that his mind could be expanded across such new realms before, create something so magical, and yet out of place. He needs to explore it more, once he has the time. If he gets to have the time that is. 

Draco's forehead seems fractionally cooler once Harry has washed the wound and dabbed his chest. With minimal difficulty, he also forces the vial of fever reducing potion down Draco's throat. However little it might help, it's still help, and Harry isn't about to be ungrateful. 

Harry is not a killer, he thinks some time later, as he's gazing down at his pink tinted hands. He's no murderer, and he is incredibly selfish. Draco Malfoy has to live. He saved Harry's life, Harry is the reason he's here now. Harry won't let Draco die, not like this, in a prison cell.

Twinky returns, only an hour later to take the bowl away with a quiet apology, and Harry lets her. He's sprawled next to Draco, his eyes drooping with exhaustion and his limbs shaking in earnest in spite of his apathetic mood. 

He stays there, on the floor, with his cheek leaned onto the gravelly ground and the tips of his fingers brushing against Draco's wrist, as if just checking the other boy's pulse. In reality, Harry is analysing his temperature, but is too tired to get up and put the back of his hand on the boy's forehead every time. It's too much effort, and Harry is ashamed to admit that even harboring the idea of getting up from this position is actually tearing him up. 

He's really tired. 

'You did well, kiddo,' Harry doesn't feel deserving of that sort of validation, coming from himself no less, but he's too worn out to argue, so he just lays there and wishes for a break. A place shrouded in absolute darkness, with no sound or sight, or movement. Just him floating around with no worries. 

Harry is kind of counting on such a fate if he happens to befall to Voldemort's wand. Or Bellatrix's torture. Whichever comes first, a tiny part of Harry is ready for it. 

Until then, he's just going to lie there, and do absolutely nothing. 

Of course, that's not the way the world works, not the way the wheel turns, because Harry cannot take a fucking break, and this new asshole is late to the game. 

The man enters the cell with a sick grin on his face and certain gleam in his eyes and Harry lets his eyes close. Time to get some crispy nerves. 

He wrinkles his nose at himself for the vulgar imagery, and then all he knows is pain, once again. 

##

As Severus strides towards his personal quarters, he has a scowl firmly in place to divert anyone, student or teacher alike, from approaching him. 

The golden quill, the one from a magical golden quail, despite its size and its featherweight quality in his robe pocket, is a constant reminder of what he has to do today. The Dark Lord returns tonight after the sun has set. 

He doesn’t have much time. 

Albus had relieved him of his duties as a spy; which just went to show how grave the entire ordeal was. Not that it needed any confirmation for Severus's sake. In fact, he might be one of the only people who would understand the delicacy, and sensitivity of this situation. This is running away from a broken dam, the surge of the flood. 

Severus has to outrun time.

Much needs to be done, in such a short amount of time, and not a single thing could be overlooked in the process but one... They still couldn’t do anything about that pink toad. 

She's certainly not helping things. Two days have gone since Potter and Draco's absence and Dolores had not even once addressed their absence. The contrast between her, and the panicking staff was entirely comical at first, and merely pathetic once Potter's friends started getting really worried. Weasley had a detention with her now, if Severus is not mistaken. For blowing up at her in her class, apparently, Granger hadn't shown up to two of her classes along with the red headed boy. 

Minerva had not been pleased, but not entirely enraged at the two either. 

With another order member gone from the school… Severus shakes his head, cutting the thought midway as it was forming. He has to focus now. 

He doesn't pause as he strides towards the fireplace, grabs a fistful of floo powder and changes his teaching robes for the death eater garb. He takes a deep breath, as he does nearly every time before a mission. This might be his last. 

Either in his career. Or his life. Severus, while unabashedly confident in his abilities, as a dueler, and a Slytherin, really has no qualms about the odds of failure stacked against him. Of course, all might end well if he goes according to the carefully crafted plan. 

Severus abhors uncertainty. 

He nods at himself once more before throwing the powder in the roaring fire, he says, his voice as flat and emotionless as his face, “Malfoy Manor!”

He steps out of the fireplace, dusting himself off, barely glances around the study as his eyes land on the figure sitting behind the desk. Lucius’ cane is resting against his chair and he has two wands in his lap as he stares at Severus impassively. 

“Lucius,” Severus says, staring into his eyes.

“Severus.” 

Severus waits, stoic still even as his mind screams at him to hurry, body pulled taut, even though he keeps his stance deceptively casual. Lucius breaks the silence, stands up, moving towards Severus. 

“I found Potter’s.” He says, holding the two wands in his hand. Severus stares for a moment, before inclining his head, he takes the offered wands and puts them away.

“I’ll be up as soon as possible, make sure you are ready.” Severus swallows, continuing, "Accommodations have been made, you can join us." Although, he knows already what the answer is going to be. 

Lucius just gives him a rueful smile, which vanishes as soon as it had come. “Go.” 

On the way to the dungeons, Severus doesn’t encounter any other Death Eaters and doesn’t know if he should be relieved or suspicious. He settles for suspicion and asserts more confidence into his stride even as he remains cautious. 

He reaches the lower levels, near the cellar door, and that’s when he starts hearing the screaming. It is only with pragmatic practice years in the making that he doesn’t let his steps falter. 

He pushes the iron gates open at once, enters the narrow corridor and walks towards the cell where the shrieks are coming from. Long and drawn out, hoarse and almost gone. It’s a sound he knows well. 

He stares at Nott as Potter twitches on the floor. Draco is slumped over against the wall, his eyes closed, shirt bloody and face mauled, and Severus’s heart skips a beat. But then he sees his chest rising and falling, and Severus himself almost slumps in relief, before catching himself. 

Nott is about to cast another Cruciatus on the boy, his hand is raised and Severus quickly enters the cell, “Nott.” 

Nott startles, before lowering his wand and looking at Severus. “Snape, what are you doing here?”

“What are _you_?” Severus shoots back. Potter’s breath is loud and raspy. 

Nott’s face sours, “What do you want?” 

This time, even as he feels sickened to the core, he bares his teeth in a smile he knows isn’t pretty, “Same as you.” 

Nott’s face clears, “Ah, heard you didn’t like the Potter brat--”

“I loathe him.” Severus cuts in, keeping his voice devoid of any feelings Nott might pick up on. 

“Of course, but I had just started--” 

“Leave, Nott.” Severus takes vindictive pleasure in seeing Nott’s scowl as he is interrupted again. There is relief too, if he’d just started, there is a possibility that Potter might not be completely incapacitated.

“But…” Severus fixes Nott with a glare that is worthy of reducing seventh years to tears. Nott merely huffs and turns around, grumbling as he exits the cell. Severus wants to sigh in relief, to take a breather, because everything could be undone with the slightest mistake. But everything can also be undone with the slightest delay, and he doesn’t have much time. 

He kneels down beside Potter, who is still except for the tremors that wrack his body, eyes half-lidded as he stares at Severus in stark terror and… determination. “Potter, can you hear me?” he murmurs. 

Potter’s trembling hands are clenching and unclenching, and he is actually glaring at Severus. If the situation weren’t as horrific as it is, Severus would have found it amusing. He doesn’t answer. 

Severus’s voice is more urgent as he continues, “Potter, we need to get out of here. Stop being difficult. Can you stand?” 

Potter lets out a sound that may have been a huff or a gasp, and plants his hands solidly against the floor, before starting to push himself up. When Severus puts a hand between his shoulders to help him up, the boy flinches away so violently he almost falls over again. Severus has not done this in a long time. Rescuing tortured victims. He should have anticipated this, instead of rebuking himself though, he just purses his lips and simply helps Potter sit up.

Potter promptly collapses back on the floor.

Severus resists the urge to close his eyes, and pulls out a vial of pepper up potion from his robes. It’s not ideal, at all, but it’ll have to do. Keeping Potter alive is more important than thinking about the repercussions of potion use and its effects on Potter's damaged body. 

Severus still cringes as he puts the vial at Potter’s lips and wraps one of the boy’s hands around it, “Drink up, Potter. It’s a pepper up. We don’t have time.” 

A bit of the potion dribbles down his cheeks and Severus is just about to spell it directly into his stomach when Potter’s grip tightens on it and his head lifts up a fraction. Severus nods. 

“Get your bearings.” Severus gets up and makes his way over to Draco, who hasn’t opened his eyes once. After a moment, he can feel Potter’s stare on them as he tries to rouse Draco, as he lightly pats his cheek. He's burning up. Severus has a fever reducer, he pulls it out and quickly nudges Draco’s mouth.

“What’re yuh doing?” Potter’s sharp but slightly slurring voice comes from behind him, where he is now on his hands and knees, trying to stand. 

“Making sure no one dies,” 

"Stop," Potter is blindly grappling for some sort of support to lean his weight upon, and Severus has no time to sneer at his foolishness. He was just getting the living daylight tortured out of him, and here he is trying to stand? 

Gryffindors. 

"Settle down," he says as he presses the back of his hand to Draco's glistening forehead. He's too warm for comfort. Severus has to take care of that after he has gotten the boys out of here. For now, a mild fever reducer would do. 

"How long has he been like this?" 

"What?" Potter blinks.

"How long has he been feverish?" 

Potter hesitates, and Severus has to resist rolling his eyes, then he answers, "I don't know," he looks so terribly lost. Severus cannot stop seeing Alice Longbottom in his place. "A day? I don't know. I don't--"

There's a pause, Potter struggles to breathe rightly, "I found out… sometime ago. I don't know the time," 

Of course he wouldn't. Psychological torture has already begun taking effect. A classic method too, Severus should have predicted this beforehand. 

No matter, Draco seems stable enough for now. 

"I don't have anything else for you at the moment," he stands and turns to face a glaring Potter. 

"Why--" Potter's lip curls. "Why are you helping us?" The boy looks so genuinely confused that Severus is almost offended. 

The boy knows who he is. He knows that Severus works for Dumbledore and he still dares question him right this second? The torture must have gotten to his head.

"Do you rather I help you now, or not at all," Severus snaps. 

"You're one of them," 

Severus grits his teeth, and contains the urge to growl. Potter has been tortured, for two straight days, Severus is not going to snap at him right after. "We really don't have time for this, Potter." he says instead. "Just for once in your life, listen to me without asking incessant questions. I will answer each and every one of them once we're out of here, we have a very limited time slot and if you keep--"

"You were there. When she killed… Draco's mom. You were there, and you did nothing." 

Severus stills.

"How do you know that?" Severus knows for certain that Draco would never divulge that information to another living soul. Much less Potter. 

The boy crosses his arms for dramatic effect, but he's shaking too badly to impose a threatening image. "It doesn't matter." he says. "I just do. Draco begged you and you did nothing. I don't trust you." he adds that last bit as an afterthought. 

Severus feels his eyebrows rise on impulse. "Draco?" he repeats, a bit startled at the casual way Potter throws his godson's name around. Just two months ago they were at each other's throats, and now they were on first name basis? Well, Potter is, by the looks of things.

Torture bonding. 

Severus huffs, figures. "Leave the interrogation for later," 

"Hmm?" Potter has started swaying a little on his feet and looks seconds away from collapsing. Severus shakes his head, he has to hurry. 

“Potter, there are always other factors to be considered, now, if you don’t have a death wish, come here.” Potter’s still looking at him suspiciously, and without his glasses, Severus can clearly see his wide and slightly glazed over eyes. 

When the boy starts tipping over, Severus acts on instinct and catches him by his arms, but the boy cries out in pain and stumbles back. Severus winces, there is probably a lot of nerve damage if Bellatrix got her hands on him. 

Severus doesn't let his thoughts regarding Potter sink deeper in his mind. Doesn't let the thought of permanent damage, and singed nerve endings and the ambiguity of the boy's mental state hinder his detailed, very, prominently time oriented plan. They need to leave. Now. 

He pulls Potter, as gently but as hurriedly as he can manage and leans him against the wall, then crouches down to retrieve a mumbling Draco. 

"Can you walk by yourself?" he asks, and holds Draco upright by his waist, throwing one of the boy's lanky arms over his neck as he holds his wand in his other hand. 

"What if it's a trap?" Potter asks but is following him out of the cell, nonetheless. Staggering, but more or less upright.

"Would you really rather stay and find out?" 

Draco's mumbling gets louder-a rather disjointed monologue about bees-, and as they finally move out of the cell that Severus locks with a flick of his wand, his eyes flutter at the crude light hanging above them in the damp hallway. 

"Listen very carefully Potter, I'm only going over this once. We'll run to the stairs. We enter the study and head _straight_ to the floo. If Draco and I don't make it, you are under explicit orders to floo to the headquarters. But if we are together, then I'll take charge. If I say 'run'. You run. You don't linger or look back or more people die. Do you understand?" 

"Okay," he sounds more alert now.

"No. Tell me that you understand."

"I understand, sir." Severus looks Potter in the eyes, staring until he is sure that the boy actually understood. Then huffing in satisfaction, he starts hauling Draco alongside. 

"Stay behind me," then they're on the move, their steps quietly clicking against the stones as they stride to the stairs at the end of the corridor. No one else should be there, prior to his departure from the study Lucius promised to keep an eye out so Severus is mildly optimistic that they won't run into much trouble. 

Potter is wheezing behind him, and a small part of Severus feels severely sorry that the boy is being forced to run in this state, but he doesn't voice his thoughts. They cannot afford the smallest mistake, as long as Potter is conscious then he can run. 

Draco groans, but tries to assist in the run, he looked confused before, but one affirmative order from Potter over his shoulder prompted Draco to blindly let Severus guide them through the maze of corridors to the main stairs leading up to the Manor. Severus doesn’t show much reaction to that other than raising his eyebrows. How much bonding have they had in two days?

By the time they make it up the stairs, Potter’s almost ready to collapse, but thankfully Draco looks passably alert and is supporting his own weight, and partially Potter’s, Severus ignores the glances they both throw at him and assesses the surrounding area. They have half a story to go to reach the main hall that leads to the study. 

Severus can hear a few people, from above, but doesn’t let his body freeze in terror. He knows how to proceed if worse comes to worst and also, Lucius had promised him to keep everyone cleared. They also have the element of surprise. 

“There are people,” Potter whispers. 

“Hush, Potter.” 

“Severus,” Draco turns to him, his eyes narrowed. Severus reads the silent question without missing a beat. ‘Are we getting out alive?’

Severus doesn’t dare nod his head, neither does he shake it, instead he throws a meaningful glance at a disoriented Potter and Draco scowls. 

Severus trusts Draco to carry out the rescue mission if he himself is taken out. The chances of his godson getting Potter to safety was marginally more than Potter willingly running himself. He could take Potter somewhere safe, maybe the Villa in south France, or the boat house in Yorkshire.

He lets Draco choose if it came up. He wouldn't live to know it anyway.

Potter is the main priority. Albus had made that very clear, and to be quite frank, Severus doesn’t blame him, Draco might by the snarky look on his face, but Severus doesn’t. He is a grown man with more than a decade of double agency filling up his resume. He is fully aware of the risks and of Potter’s importance. It is imperative that Potter gets out alive. Although, not blaming Albus didn’t mean it was an easy fact to swallow. 

“Just a little bit more,” Draco whispers to Potter as they’re heavily leaning against the wall. Severus watches from the corner of his eyes as Nott rounds the end of the corridor, leaving it vacant. There is no one else on the main levels but Lucius, them and Nott. Bella isn’t even in the manor, and that’s a blessing on itself. 

“Hush,” Severus snaps at them again and firmly ushers Draco-and by extension Potter- down the dimly lit hall, decorated with ornate, antique vases, one of them Severus fondly remembers as Narcissa’s favorite, and a few scattered portraits, that are all empty now. Lucius has taken care of everything, it seems. 

As they round the last corner towards Lucius’ study, Severus sees him. He is standing by the doorway, cane in hand, and his hair in a loose ponytail, he looks strangely poised as he meets Draco’s eyes and then nods at Severus. He has a bundle of cloth draped over this other arm. 

“We don’t have much time,” he says. 

“I know.” Severus gently pushes the boys into the empty study. Wordlessly, Lucius hands a pair of glasses to Potter, who looks taken aback, and with a brief glance at Severus, reaches out with a shaking hand to take them, warily regarding Lucius. 

“Father,” Draco’s voice is quiet, but Potter still seems to startle a little. Lucius finally turns his gaze towards his son, completely ignoring Potter. 

“My little dragon,” Lucius sounds brittle, but with a soft smile, a smile Severus hadn’t seen on his face in several years. The words make something clench in Severus’ heart as he thinks about Narcissa. 

Draco just stares at his father. “Don’t do it.” He is shivering, almost worse than Potter. 

Lucius’ smile doesn’t falter, even as he takes in Draco’s appearance. He steps forward and Draco flinches, it makes Lucius pause. Severus notices Potter tensing up where he is leaning against the wall. 

Lucius takes another step forward and reaches out; this time, slowly. Draco is tensed as Lucius drapes what Severus recognises as his school robes around his shivering shoulders. Draco is starting to sway when Lucius puts a firm hand on his shoulder.

“Make me proud, Draco. You are a Malfoy. I will never expect anything less of you.” 

Severus knows this is an important moment, that he should probably give them their time, but he can’t ignore the fact that they are running on a deadline, that they’re still in enemy territory. 

“Father,” the crack in Draco’s voice stops Severus from telling them to hurry up. 

“Your mother and I are very proud of you. Always will be.” Then Lucius turns to Severus. 

“Keep them safe,” he says. 

“Now, isn’t that tear jerking?” a foreign voice drawls. Rosier’s eyes are narrowed and his wand lazily points to Lucius as he leans against the fireplace, his other hand dusting off soot. It's because of years of experience as both a Death Eater and a spy that Severus keeps from letting out a litany of profanities from his mouth. Potter has no such reservations as he stumbles back, almost plopping to the floor before steadying himself against the wall. 

A smirk curls across Rosier’s lips. “Bad seeds,” the man shrugs. “That should be it. The seeds of a traitor, the womb of a traitor… I mean there’s only so much you can hope for. CRUCIO!”

“Severus, now!” Lucius’s voice cuts through the air as he ducks, his cane clattering to the floor as he whips his wand out. Severus quickly darts about, grabbing Draco by his arm and pushing him towards the fireplace while Lucius sends a curse after Rosier, making him dive away. 

“ _Bombarda!_ ” 

“ _Tarantallegra!_ ”

“ _Confringo!_ ” Severus casts a quick non-verbal shield around Draco as he sprints across the room towards Potter, who is now on the floor from the resulting explosion from Rosier’s spell. 

“You filthy blood traitor!” Rosier yells, a trickle of blood trailing down his mouth as he makes a slashing motion with his wand. Lucius levitates a chair in front of him, which breaks down in half. 

Severus grasps Potter’s elbow and helps him off the ground, quickly casting a knee reversing hex at Rosier, who stumbles and falls to the ground in a heap, his legs bent at a disturbing angle. His yell is loud as he casts the Killing Curse towards them, but in his rage, his aim is off. 

The noise is loud. And the door blasts open as Nott and Avery stand there, red faced and panting. 

“Go, Severus!” Lucius yells, he casts a shield around himself to evade Avery’s curse. Another blasting curse from Rosier, who is now getting up on his feet again, makes the whole room shake as the table is split apart. Draco staggers backwards, his head knocking against the fireplace as he grasps at its edges. 

“ _Nokuran Plango_!” Severus watches in horror as Nott’s curse grazes Draco on the shoulder. There is a moment of stillness before Draco roars in pain, Lucius is thrown off balance, wildly glancing at his son over his shoulder whilst trying to take Nott down in the same instance. Draco crumples down as blood spreads across his shirt and robe at an alarming rate.

“No!” Potter screams, lunging towards Draco, who is now on his knees. Severus acts quickly, casting a _Levicorpus_ on Nott’s advancing form that was advancing on Lucius, and cringing as the man hollers profanities, he dangles in the air upside down. 

Severus reaches Draco just in time to see the large clock in the wall explode in a shower of sparks and splinters. He doesn’t dare look back at Lucius, still occupied by Rosier and Avery as he shoves Draco and Potter into the fireplace. He hears Rosier’s bellow just as he throws in a handful of floo powder and intones, in as clear a voice as he can, “Salamander’s Enclave!” 

And whirling they go. 

##

Salamander’s enclave is a bit of a running joke in the Order. One that Severus himself never quite found funny. The cottage itself is absolutely useless, not even used as a hiding route, rather a small shabby cabin, etched underneath a big rock that eerily resembled a crouched salamander from afar, and that was if one were looking for it, hence its name. 

Severus, once they arrive at the rundown cottage, doesn’t waste even a second, ignores Potter crouching over an alarmingly unconscious Draco and rips out his portkey from the inner pocket of his robes.

“Portus!” He hisses and then instead of dragging Potter, crouches by the boys, wordlessly holding out the golden feather and grasping Draco’s uninjured shoulder in a tight unflinching grasp with his other hand. 

Potter’s finger closes around the quill, and only a beat later, they’re pulled by their navels, disappearing on the spot once again. 

##

Upon reaching their intended destination, Potter starts retching on the ground, although, impressively enough he doesn’t propel his innards on the floor, and, surprisingly, pulls himself together pretty quickly, he crawls the short distance towards Draco. His pupils are blown wide and his hands flutter over Draco's body in panicked gestures. Severus panics just by looking at Potter. The boy exudes pure distress. 

“Potter,” Severus says, himself a little breathless. 

“He’s bleeding, I cannot--” Severus can’t deal with a hysterical teenager right now, he needs to act _quickly_. 

“Help me get him to the couch, NOW!”

Potter scrambles to his feet, trembling all over, violently shaking as he holds onto Draco’s legs and Severus lifts him from his waist. Together, they quickly transfer a bleeding Draco to the worn, red sofa. The fabric is immediately stained black upon making contact with the blonde. 

“There’s running water in the kitchen. Go and fill up a bowl, fast.”

Potter runs. Actually turns back and _runs_ around the unventured cottage in search of said kitchen. Severus starts peeling off Draco’s robe, and then his shirt, wincing at the claw like marks across his torso but focusing on his shoulder. There’s so much blood that he can’t even make out the wound. 

Merlin and Circe damn Greyback. Damn him to the nine depths of hell for doing this to Narcissa's son, to Severus' _godson._

Draco is going to be devastated, once he wakes up. 

Potter returns in record time. 

“I have the water,” it’s terribly sloshing on the sides as Potter’s unsteady hands lower the bowl next to Severus. 

“Listen to me very carefully, Potter,” he says as he starts to furiously dab the blood away with the wet flannel Potter had already dipped in the bowl. He cannot afford to use direct magic on it, too risky. Nott played them dirty, of course that babbling dweeb wasn't known for his intelligence, but using such a dark curse in proximity to Potter while being aware of the boy's importance to the dark lord spoke of a new low.

Well, the curse didn't hit Harry Potter. It got to his godson. 

“This wound won’t just heal with a spell or a healing salve, do you hear me?" He snaps. 

"After I treat him now, it won’t be over for him. You need to keep an eye on the wound, at all times, _at all times_ , do you hear me?” Severus doesn’t look up from his work as he speaks, and it's an effort to keep his own hands steady. The adrenaline rush is tapering down.

“I do,” Potter says, wringing his hands nervously, “Is he going to be okay?”

Severus isn’t completely sure, but Potter doesn’t need to know that. “I’ll treat him now, and then return with more supplies later. I do not know when that would be, and I cannot stay long for now. So until then, you’re responsible for him.”

“But I--” Severus finally looks up to see Potter’s wide eyes staring back at him.

“This location is discreet," he tries to sound soothing. Torture victim. Potter is a torture victim, fragile mentality, all that deranged details that Severus could care less about. He should care now. "No one knows of it, no one ever will. You will never, listen very carefully, _never_ step outside the wards, no further than a hundred yards around the cottage. You’ll step out and you will be found sooner than you can say the word ‘snitch’.”

“Okay,” Potter says, his voice soft as he goes back to staring at Draco. Draco groans a little, slightly shifts. The wind chime tinkles away in the background. Severus can’t bring himself to even feel irritated by it right now. 

“I don’t have anything to treat your condition for now, the bathroom cabinet is stocked with some essentials, don’t be sparse while using it on yourself or Draco, this curse is as painful as it gets, at least until the effects have somewhat worn off.” Severus presses another clean rag to Draco’s shoulder, pulling out a vial of Pain Reliever with his other hand, “You need to stay hydrated yourself, don’t handle heavy weight, and avoid highly stressful situations. Which you will have to anyway.” He spells the potion directly in Draco’s stomach before replacing the now bloody rag with another, this one soaked in some disinfectant. 

When Potter doesn’t respond for a while, Severus looks back at him. The boy is quiet and staring at his hands. Tremors run through his whole body like a muggle electrical current, and Potter is abashedly helpless in controlling them.

Severus has seen Crucio victims before, hundreds of times, throughout his youth and onward. The degree varies, from Mad-Eye Moody's twitching eye to Frank Longbottom's constant seizures. Potter is dangerously tipping toward the latter.

“Is it permanent?” his small voice tugs at Severus, and he itches to lie. But he can’t, not now, not about this. 

“I’m sorry, Potter. It will get easier with time.”

“There’s nothing for it,” Potter says as he clenches his hand into fists and shoves them behind his back.

It strikes Severus once more, how young Potter is in the face of something like this. The boy is embarrassed of being tortured. Of surviving Bellatrix Lestrange. He's just a boy.

“The most I, or anyone for that matter, could give you at this stage is nerve soothing agents,” Severus hesitates, wondering if he really needs to tell Potter this, but then the boy looks up at him with those eyes, looking so stoic even as he trembles, even as his eyes betray his fear. All he sees for a beat is Lily's eyes, staring at him across the room in an order meeting, a fussy baby on her lap, she was furiously determined. Afraid and determined at once. 

Severus pushes the image away and continues, “Which might temporarily provide relief, but eventually wears off after the consumer gains immunity to the ingredients. The tremors wear off a little after some time, though. Some types of magic… aren’t reversible. This is one of the many reasons why the cruciatus curse is, well, an unforgivable.”

Potter nods, his eyes fixate on the ground, and Severus has to bite back a sigh as he summons a roll of gauze from the first aid cabinet. Potter needs to come to terms with this in his own time, and Severus needs to make sure Draco is stable before leaving. He's still on a time limit here. He presses a fresh square of cloth, this one soaked in disinfectant too, against the ugly looking wound, he starts wrapping it up. 

The injury looks like a wound from a splinching accident that caught an infection. It was designed to repel magical healing methods, that's the genius infused element. Severus has seen this curse used only once before, on a muggle middle aged man, years ago. He didn't survive the encounter.

The best Severus can do right now is keep another actual infection out, while also counteracting the effects of the curse which causes blood poisoning on top of everything else. He pulls out the advanced brew of dittany that he had perfected throughout the years and hands four full vials to Potter. 

“Put exactly seven drops of this in two cupfuls of water and soak a cloth in it. Apply it to his wound every three hours, change his bandages as soon as they soak through, and give him half a vial of fever reducing potion if his fever spikes up again, he’s stable now. Do you understand me Potter?” he starts working on disinfecting the claw cuts on his torso and face. 

Severus doesn’t want to think about Draco’s reaction to the cut that will scar his face, running down from below his right eye down to his jaw. It isn’t subtle. 

“I’m not sure?” Potter’s voice is timid, as if expecting to be yelled at. Severus sighs. He keeps forgetting to be gentle with the boy. He avoids Potter's eyes and summons a muggle style paper and pen. 

“I’m writing it down." He says slowly, "I brought your wand and the other belongs to Draco. There’s no way to contact me, the floo doesn’t work in the fireplace. The kitchen is stocked, any ingredients that you might need is provided for at least five or six months. I or someone from the order will most definitely drop in before then. Do you understand me?” Severus folds the paper in two and holds it out for Potter. 

Then as an afterthought, he hands in the wands in his pocket over as well. "Do you understand, Potter?" 

Potter frowns a little at the unfamiliar wand before taking them with a nod, “Okay, yes. Yeah, I get it.”

“You will be safe here.” Severus says. He stands, vanishing the tattered remains of Draco’s shirt and casts a _Scourgify_ on the robe, repairing the damage too. Narcissa had bought him the school robes, if Severus isn't mistaken. Draco would want it intact. The fabric fuses back together, almost effortlessly, which is to be expected, since the curse only ever affects the flesh with any vigour. Which is a lot. 

“Thank you, for saving us and you know…” Potter grimaces, he's still on the floor, “Sorry for blaming you, and cussing at you,”

“You didn’t cuss,” Severus quirks a brow.

Potter winces. “I did, a lot. It was in my head though, but it still counts.”

“Apology accepted.” Severus does his best not to smirk. 

“Mr. Malfoy--”

“Trust me, Potter,” the smirk is gone now, “You don’t want to know what becomes of him." Severus doesn't want to, either. He and Lucius were good friends, they had history together. His loss would leave its mark on Severus. "Neither does Draco. He has already lost enough.”

“I know.” Potter swallows, and Severus nods, smoothing out the wrinkles on his own robes. 

“Goodbye sir,”

“Farewell, Potter.” Severus turns away, unable to bear the sight of Potter’s trembling form any longer. 


	18. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings for; explicit language, aftermath of torture, torture and abuse (discussed), post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), depictions of injuries.
> 
> Since this is an Interlude, we will be updating chapter eighteen NEXT Saturday instead of the normal scheduled date. Have fun with it and stay safe.
> 
> Next update on 17th October, Saturday.

He has a headache.

It's funny how only now does he notice the pounding in his head, not for its lack of presence before, but rather because of the absence of much more pointed sources of pain. That's the one perk of torture.

It's irritating. 

Harry isn't used to being frustrated by headaches. Not normal ones anyway, if it didn't have anything to do with his scar, then it wasn't worth thinking about, and his body, ever the victim of Harry's whims and bouts of bravery, had merely given up in its pursuit to convince him otherwise.

Now it's taking revenge.

He's not allowed to take nerve soothers with any other potions. He remembers that much, so this headache is going to stay unless Harry sleeps it off.

Harry isn't going to do that. For obvious reasons.

His knees are also on the list of things that hurt, but that's self-inflicted because he's an idiot, and he's kneeling on the cold hard floor by the couch. It's the only way he can keep watch on Draco without collapsing in exhaustion.

'Lying down would help, you know,'

"Piss off," Harry mutters, leaning his head against the edge of the couch. He can smell stale blood, still on Draco's shirt, it's enforcing his nausea but he finds it comforting. It's familiar. It reminds him of Hogwarts, and the girls bathroom, an entire lifetime ago. 

'Looks better than that shitty cell, at least.' he hears Sirius' boots clicking around the living room. 'You should walk around a bit, just to make sure you still can,'

"Shut up," 

'Or to make sure this is real. Two distinct possibilities, right? Either you're here or you're not.' Sirius is behind him, Harry can feel the man sprawled on an armchair.

"Real?" Harry's fingers attempt rubbing his temple, his aim is off and the shaking gets his hand tangled in his hair. Harry curses.

The idea of this being real, or rather, the falseness grips him. It would imply that Harry is stuck in a delusional world where Snape and Draco saved his ass, and now they're here in a cottage with fucking shells everywhere while really being back in the cell getting his brain fried. Either that, or that this is real.

Harry hates Sirius for even suggesting the mere possibility, because any shred of relief that was slowly soaking down into his bones, is now dried into a brittle sense of dread. 

Is anything real anymore?

Even Sirius isn’t real. And that means he himself thinks that this all might not be real, and he really does not have the time to be taking this type of shit from his own self. 

He raises his hand with slight difficulty and drags it across the couch until he feels skin. Draco is still a bit hot, but not hot enough for Harry to give him any potions per Snape's instructions. 

That feels real enough.

'Do you think you would know?' Sirius drawls. 'The difference between living and the afterlife. I feel like this could be the continuation of a less than peaceful death for you,'

The real Sirius would never say such a thing to Harry, and if anything, that's evidence enough that Harry isn't dead or dreaming of death. Imaginary Sirius doesn't have the license to be a twat to him once he's already dead. That's not how the game is played.

Death is potentially the ideal ending to 'had everything gone right,' after all.

'This is your ideal ending?' he can feel the man gesturing around the darkened living room. 'You can do better than this, kiddo. Death matters almost as much as the entire thing itself,'

Out of all of the horrible things that had happened to him, these words are what finally breaks the dam. Harry starts crying, not with much gusto, he doesn't have the energy to support the amount of weight he needs off his chest, so the tears stream down and half formed sobs back them up and that's all he can do.

Sirius doesn't try to comfort him and Harry keeps crying, with no clock ticking away in the background and his head pounding. 

He cannot even die right.

Ridiculous thought to be crying about, considering that he's not  _ dead  _ in the first place but Harry clings onto it like a drowning man to a rock. He needs this momentum to help him cry.

Abnormal in every way, it’s ironic. He tries so hard, each day, everyday, to be a little less like...himself. the skewered  _ Harry Potter gene _ . The corrupted part of him. And he can’t even do this one thing that everyone can do, he has to be crazy in this too. 

This wouldn't improve his headache. 

He doesn't know for how long, but the pathetic, exhausted crying-whimpering goes on for a while, and the cycle is only broken by a sound that's louder than his barely audible voice.

It's a crack. 

Harry stops mid-sob, almost comical in its abruptness, his eyes widen and only Draco's raspy breaths fill the overwhelming silence that remains. 

'You didn't imagine that,' Sirius says, he's standing and Harry quickly scrambles to his feet as well, shaking all over. He's not used to it, it's throwing off his balance. He fucking hates it.

His eyes are trained on Draco, but his ears are strained for any voice coming from outside aside from the howling wind.

_ It could be Snape _ , he thinks as he grapples for the wand on the floor as quietly as he can, holding it in a clenched fist as he slowly backs towards the kitchen.

‘It could be a death eater,’ Sirius counters, and Harry has the urge to shush him. 

The wand shakes in his grip, threatening to unleash a new wave of tears and frustration. He wouldn't be able to use his wand the right way, he doesn't even need to cast any spells to know that. 

Harry drops his wand on the coffee table with a muted curse. His chest is so tight that his lungs might just pop like a balloon any second.

He cannot take any risks. It is either Snape or it is not Snape and if it is not Snape then it is a threat. He needs a weapon. One he can actually use. The cottage is a new and unfamiliar place, and he doesn’t know where things are, what he can use as weapons. He looks around blindly, trying to make as little noise as possible. 

Harry picks up a heavy looking vase in both hands, his trembling grip is so tight that he fears the damn thing will break.

He hides behind the door frame, leans his back against the hard wall and listens with bated breath. 

The door clicks, the wind chimes subtly clink and Harry holds the vase tighter to his chest. He can keep an eye on Draco's lax body on the couch still from the corner of his eyes.

He feels a bulky shadow sliding in, the floor creaks loudly and there's a heavy click that comes with the footsteps. It's in their living room.

Not Snape. 

If it goes for Draco, then Harry would attack from behind and smash it with the vase, then start throwing punches. 

If it comes for Harry then he throws the vase ahead and then starts kicking the living life out of it. He cannot do much more in this state.

It breathes heavily as it stalks further into the cottage, subtle but still sounds booming to Harry's ears. 

'Please don't let it be a death eater.' He prays with dread, actual tears slip out of his clenched eyes. 'Anyone but death eaters is fair game, god. Anyone.'

Harry won't survive another round of torture, furthermore he  _ refuses _ to endure it a second longer. He won't go mad, he'll just die. His whole arm has started shaking from the strain of gripping the vase too tight. 

"Shit," the intruder hisses, his broad back is to Harry and facing Draco. The bastard is staring down at the blond. It's too dark to tell who it might be still.

Harry slowly slides his feet across the floorboards, vase raised over his head and madly trembling. 

"Lumos," the rough voice whispers and whirls to face a frozen Harry, his wand directly pointed to his chest. Harry reels back with a scream and the vase drops from his hands, shatters with an ear splitting crash and Harry sinks down with it.

It's over. He thinks in a wild haze of panic. It's over. It's all over. Harry is an idiot. If he’d just thrown the vase  _ at _ the intruder. _ Why why why-- _

"Fuck!" Says the intruder, his voice is oddly familiar but Harry cannot quite place the origin. He cannot breathe.

"Boy, Potter," there's fumbling around Harry's curled form on the floor, a string of curses. A single tear makes it down Harry's chin. He's waiting for it. 

He’s going to die this time. Both him and Draco. 

"Always knew you had a good head on your shoulders, eh?" The voice says, gently as the fumbling goes on. Finally there's a muted click and the back of Harry's eyelids redden. 

There were light switches in this place?

"Nasty wire work, this place," the voice grunts, the third click of a cane is much more comprehensible than before.

"Come on, lad. Open your eyes." 

Harry's nails are sharp enough to make a dent, he thinks, he can leap at the man, scratch at his face, his eyes... somewhere important.

"Merlin's… alright, I'm just gonna go sit on that armchair. Alright, Potter?" The voice doesn't wait for a reply. 

Harry slowly blinks his eyes open to the floor when he's sure the man isn't in immediate vicinity.

He peeks from the corner of his eye. 

Moody.

"Easy there," the man grunts at him, "Vase shards and all that. I would clean it up but I'm getting the hint that you're not fond of my wand,"

"God," Harry says, blinking at the man, and raising his head from where it’s buried between his arms. 

"Not quite," Moody says, with a grim smirk, his fake eye is wildly rolling in its socket, "You bleeding anywhere? You're covered in it,"

"Not mine,” Harry mumbles as he scrambles up to a sitting position, he doesn’t feel quite ready to stand on his feet yet without crumpling, “Drop your wand."

Moody's eye narrows. "As I said, good head on those shoulders. I'm not going to do that, obviously, but good try,"

He doesn't reel. He wants to, more than anything in the world right in this moment. Harry needs a break, and instead of getting what he so politely asked for after  _ literal  _ torture, the universe throws this guy at him.

'Is he even Mad-Eye Moody for real? Harry, get yourself together!' Sirius is standing right behind him and Harry cannot suppress a flinch.

"Who are…," the words all stumble out with no restraint, "Are you Moody?"

Moody's scarred face stretches into a grin, "Took you long enough to get there." He says, "Go on, make sure."

"That thing you said,” he fumbles,  _ hurry hurry _ , “when I first got to the summer place--"

"Green tongues and crimson heads." There's a slight pause, the man's eyes dart away from him, "I'm not fond of accurate predictions,"

But he was right, wasn't he? This is all Harry's fault. It couldn't have been clearer, he'd been warned and yet here he is, broken into pieces and on the verge of hysteria. 

Draco might not even survive the night because of him.

"Oh my God," there are vase shards everywhere, and Harry is barefoot. But he can barely focus on that right now. It feels like most of them went inside his chest and throat. 

At least now he knows. It wasn’t a death eater. It’s an order member. He’s not- he’s not about to be tortured. 

Coward. He is such a coward.

"Hey, Potter. Take it easy." Moody says, he must have noticed that Harry's face is as white as bleached sheets, "You got out," his voice is irritatingly soft.

"No, I didn't,” he says, finally getting his bearings. It's as if his head had split open and scattered all his nerves around with the shards of broken china. He cannot get those writhing, squirming things back in his body. He left them in the cell. He's still there. Might be, if this was a delusion after all.

Harry narrows his eyes, “Snape said that this place is discreet--"

"That scum isn't the only person Albus trusts,” Moody’s mouth twists in distaste, before it reverts back to a gentle drone, “I cannot stay long," the man says in a low voice, "Just a few hours at most."

He treats Harry the way one treats a frightened animal caught in headlights, gentle and cautious, as if Harry might spring and off himself at any given moment. Harry wouldn't dare. He's wary of the pain.

"You look like you need help," Moody says.

Harry regards the man, "I don't know what to say." He cannot even tell if he's being honest.

Moody shrugs, "Don't say a thing then."

Harry doesn't reply and the silence stretches thin between the two of them.

"Come on, Lad. Get off the floor. Have you drank anything? You need to stay hydrated," Moody, using his cane, gets off the creaking armchair, and clunks over to the kitchen. He moves slowly, and Harry can’t figure out whether it’s because he doesn’t know the layout of the place or if it’s for Harry’s benefit, or if he’s injured. And frankly, he’s too frazzled to care. 

Moody still hasn’t put away the wand. Although, at least it isn’t pointed anywhere near him, and he isn’t using it to get him water. Small mercies are all he has now. His eyes wander to Draco's scabbed face and stay there for a while.

Time doesn't feel real enough to him.

Harry tries picking his way through the vase pieces after a while and manages with only a little nick on the palm. Now that the adrenaline rush has receded, his legs have joined in on the tremor party with his hands. 

"Better not to eat anything now,” Moody thrusts a glass of water at him, “you'll just turn it over on the floor. Have you taken anything for it?"

"No."

"You should. We cannot have a healer in and out of here, so you better not make yourself sick, kid," the man resettles on the armchair.

"This isn't my fault," Harry still hasn’t drunk the water. He thinks he might shatter the glass if he stares at it for too long. 

"No, of course not," Harry looks up, expecting to see sarcasm, or mocking. But Moody looks genuinely concerned. 

"Stop that,” Harry says, frowning, “Stop treating me like that. It's weird!"

"Like what?"

"Like-” he gestures around- “like I'm crazy,"

"You're not," Mad-Eye replies back calmly, and even his fake eye isn’t swivelling. 

"I know."

"Who was it then?” he asks after a beat, “Lestrange? Malfoy? Snape?"

Harry sets the glass down before it actually shatters, then answering, "Bellatrix. And others. I cannot…” his cheeks flush, “I cannot remember,"

He can. Every single moment of it, he has burned into his brain with blinding clarity. 

"Lestrange,” Mad-Eye’s voice sounds strange, “I've seen what she does. One deranged witch. No one has escaped her sane before, how long did she…?"

"I don't know." Harry interlaces his fingers together in an effort to mask the shaking. 

"Ugh shit," Moody's eyes are on Harry's hands, "It's okay, I'm sorry, Potter. That wasn't the best thing to ask, was it? Years of doing the same thing over and over… it desensitizes you,"

"No one’s escaped her with their minds intact,"

'I don't find that comforting,' Sirius grumbles.

"Not before you, no. I've seen them dropping like flies, left and right. Insanity is contagious, Potter. And hers…” he shakes his head, “is just beast-like."

"How do you know I'm--"

"You're forming coherent words,” he cuts Harry off firmly, as if unwilling to even let Harry consider the possibility, "And your eyes are glazed. I'm not a newbie, Potter. I knew you had it on you the moment I walked in. Constant vigilance." The man taps his forehead with a meaty finger.

"I don't feel sane," he mumbles, but of course Moody catches it. 

"Sleep, lots of sleep. There isn't much else you can do,” he says with a shrug, “And water. Try avoiding food for the next ten hours. You cannot have it worse than Malfoy's spawn,"

Harry's head whips back to the man, his eyes narrow in a glare, "Don't call him that." He snaps.

Moody doesn't look surprised of Harry's defensive attitude in the slightest, "Sore spot, eh?" He rubs his chin, "Poor lad," it's unclear whether he means Harry or Draco, "He got plagued with the sailor's wrath, didn't he?” Moody throws a glance towards Draco, “The wound on his shoulder,"

"The what?"

"Sailor's wrath. Nasty thing. It never really heals. Whose work is that one?" Harry’s stomach tightens a bit at Moody’s words, but he forces himself to answer. 

"I don't know. It happened really fast, we were… we were trying.” Trying is never good enough, he should have- he could have done better, he should have been more alert. “--Trying to get away and then-then he screamed and there was blood and I didn't know what to do." If only he hadn’t been so useless. 

"That's war,” Moody huffs out, as if he can read straight through Harry, “Greyback was there too, I'm assuming? He didn't scratch you, did he?"

"Is Draco going to be--"

"As long as he wasn't bitten, he'll be fine.” Moody reassures him, and Harry relaxes minutely, “I can conjure up some shackles if it makes you feel safer, full moon is in two days,"

"No shackles,” Harry says, horrified, “No. Just… keep your fucking wand away,"

"I don't suppose you've had time to process all this,” he says, and his wand is still in Harry’s line of sight. Harry doesn’t know if it’s better or worse. Moody continues, “Godless world we live in, Potter. There's no mercy. I'm not glad you've come upon it in such a way, but… well."

"I had to anyway?” Harry snaps, suddenly very tired, and the headache making itself known once again, “Is that it? Just because I was born to defeat him, I must endure whatever they throw at me?"

Like mice running in a wheel. Perpetual and inevitable. It's disgusting.

"My apology wouldn't be worth a knot, Potter,” Moody’s eye swivels over and fixes at him, “I could say that I'm sorry you were tortured. I would mean it, certainly, you're too young to be a soldier. But would it be worth anything to you?"

"Nothing is worth anything to me anymore. She damaged me, I'm not going to get better and this,” he holds his hands up, palms out, and they tremble violently, “is going to stay, apparently for the rest of my fucking life,"

Moody stares at his hands pensively, and then looks at Harry’s eyes. Without breaking eye contact, Moody sharply holds out his own hands, the wand is seemingly in his non-dominant hand and pointing away, but Harry still has to suppress a flinch. 

Bold but not threatening, it takes him a while before he sees what he's supposed to. It catches Harry’s attention on a string, very subtle tremors running through Moody’s hands. He’d never noticed them before. They look negligible compared to his own, but to him they’re monumental. 

His heart sinks, “So they’ll- they’ll truly never go away?”

Snape's words hadn't rung true before. But the evidence is before his eyes now. True and terrifyingly real.

"We all lose things in wars," Moody says, "Things that are not replaceable,” he pulls his hands away and sits back, “All of us, at one point or another. Some of us got up and walked away, others… not so much,"

Harry's mind takes a stumble before catching on. Which one does he belong to? The ones that got up or the ones that stayed down? He knows what they look like, he might not have seen Neville's parents, but he's heard of them. He's heard enough.

Sectioned away in a white mental ward, mindless, and unaware of time as life passes by them. They wouldn't know, Harry doesn't think they'd care even if they knew.

"Like Neville's parents?" He can barely hear his own voice.

They won't put him there with them, would they? They need Harry, whether sane or not. They need him. But what if they don't? They'll tie him down to the bed and let him rot away in a windowless room.

And Harry's sure, more than sure, that all too soon, he would cease caring.

"Many more," Moody replies, "But Longbottom's? They were in the first order,” his voice darkens, “It was more personal. Frank worked in my cohort." He looks away and then suddenly, as if remembering who he's speaking to, straightens up, "I'll spare you the details, Potter." He says, waves a hand, "You need rest."

"I have to keep an eye on Draco," Harry says quietly, wrapping his arms around himself. His eyes trail to Draco's slumbering body.

"Do it somewhere more comfortable, come on." Moody prompts him, "I'll move him upstairs for you. Strategically safer too, you'd have more time to prepare yourself in case someone else broke in."

He left it unclear whether he's expecting someone like him to break in, or someone like Bellatrix. 

Harry wouldn't think about this twice if he were normal.

There are times when Harry almost wishes for the forced facade of normalcy the Dursleys provide, at least there he could  _ pretend _ to be normal. He knew he wasn’t, but they wanted him to be, and went to extremes to make him appear that way. Now? No one bothers, he’s… he’s special. 

Always with the crazy. 

No matter what Moody says, he doesn’t feel sane. He knows he’s not. Moody himself said no one escapes Bellatrix sane. How would Moody know, anyway? 

He’s not been inside his head. 

Even Harry doesn't want to be in his head anymore.


	19. We Murdered God

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings for; explicit language, aftermath of torture, post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), description of injury. 
> 
> We are currently experimenting a little on update schedules, and update days, so the next update would be on a sunday instead of saturday. Sorry for the one day extra wait! 
> 
> Next update on 1st November, Sunday.

_ "God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him. How shall we comfort ourselves, the murderers of all murderers?" _

-Friedrich Nietzsche (The gay science, Die fröhliche Wissenschaft)

...

There is a very delicate, willowy edge that separates Harry's mind from utter hysteria. And at the moment, Harry is standing on that edge, gazing into the endless wasteland that seems to go on, and on and on with nothing else in sight. 

Then, it's time to change Draco's bandages again, Harry has to leave the rusty, cranking edge, and wring out a pink tinted rag to clean the blonde's wounds. Draco grumbles, Harry ignores said grumbles, and drops the rag back in the bowl, then he blinks his eyes to the edge once again. 

He is standing leeward, and the wind is beating at him from behind, but Harry doesn't turn to see. He looks hysteria in the face, chuckles a bit out of sheer nerves and then blinks once more. Time to change the bandages, again. 

These intervals, while appearing dull to a simple, narrow-minded person, sums up a real struggle for Harry, who cannot quite yet believe that he is not about to die, not about to be tortured, and also not about to bring doom to those he loves. 

Snape saved them. He actually risked his place, dragged Harry and Draco out of their death pits and hurled them into a roaring fireplace instead. Well, at least they're alive. He's not sure the same can be said about Draco's Dad. He cannot believe he would ever regard said boy's dad with anything akin to… what… fondness? Pity? 

Moody was sort of amiable to him. He has already left, but he’d been softer. And the nerve damage is permanent. And he said no one escapes Bellatrix sane. Harry feels those words etched in his bones.

It's a very tangled mess of emotions that Harry cannot handle. Not whilst he's only a step away from spiralling into irrational panic. His body is already having a disco on its own, he really doesn't need his mind joining the noodle party. 

The cottage is by the sea, Harry notices all that blue enveloping the bottom half of the dusted windows as he's in one of those intervals, and has just finished wrapping Draco's shoulder.

The sound is nice, albeit a bit distant, Harry can still hear the crashing waves distinctly, even once he's back on the edge, and the howling wind drowns out the majority of other sounds and feelings. 

In addition to the newfound sea, Harry has so eloquently  _ discovered,  _ the walls also have embedded sea shells into them, or at least, they have the impression of being embedded by real sea shells, Harry hasn't got up from the bed to check. He's just idly sitting next to Draco on the bed, his back protesting every second of his idle lounging, as his hands take their own vibe. In the most literal, and ironic sense of the word. 

In Harry's game, 'Had everything gone right in his life', Harry imagines this being a casual sleepover. He imagines Ron and Hermione downstairs, probably arguing over food, imaginary Remus, who is now semi-attached to imaginary Sirius, just chilling in the water as imaginary Sirius himself finally puts that Hawaiian shirt to use, and sunbaths. Like a real vacation. 

Harry doesn't shake like a rattlesnake, and Draco is just a really heavy sleeper. No one's dead. Or about to die. No one's bleeding to death, and no one is shaking all over like a worm during a mating call ritual. 

Do worms even do that? Harry doesn't fucking care. He's one, tiny, step away from crying, and laughing and screaming, and crying some more. 

He's alive. Draco is also alive. 

He cannot fit that into the tiny and yet vast space in his head. Deep down, even in his cell, Harry knew that there was a tiny chance of survival, he even told Draco as such. But now that they're here, and Harry is alive, and so is Draco, however barely, he cannot seem to comprehend the repercussions of his own words. 

During the next bandage change, before Harry can rid his own blood tinged hands from the pink hue, or discard of the damp rag, Draco's grumbling gets louder, and after Harry throws him a curious glance that's brimming over the edges with amusement, the boy's eyelids twitch. Draco is sure a talker. If only what he said in his sleep made any sense. 

Then, Draco's eyes peel open, to find Harry intensely staring into his. They widen a fraction, take in Harry's manic smirk, and denote the surroundings before slowly rolling back to Harry. Wordlessly taking him in. 

"I would love to say  _ 'I told you so',  _ but it seems wildly inappropriate in this situation," Harry says and the smirk transforms into a face splitting grin, only very slightly false. 

"What the-"

***

Draco sees, as he blinks his eyes open to the irritating light, a halo of mangled hair and glasses.

He only stares, takes in Harry's face, framed by a halo of light as the other boy smirks at him, and for one hysterical moment, Draco actually thinks that he's dead, and he's in heaven, with Potter, shining under the glittering light. 

Then he's slammed with the bitter truth, that firstly, if he were dead, he wouldn't be in this much pain, and Harry's hands wouldn't also be drenched in what Draco hopes is Draco's blood, and not the atrocious cuts on his own hand. The bed wouldn't creak either. And above all  _ those  _ small nitpicks…Who in their right mind would put Draco in anything resembling  _ heaven?  _

The answer is a solid no. The only upside is, as Draco looks around the small, bleached room, with pale dusty walls and shells, he realises the lack of dungeon walls surrounding them. There are sea shells in the wall. 

His eyes turn back to Harry, who is still grinning at him, his left cheek indented by a tiny dimple, as his toes lightly dig into Draco's side. 

"I would love to say  _ 'I told you so',  _ but it seems wildly inappropriate in this situation," the smirk turns into a grin, and Harry leans into him. Draco's first thought is to scramble away but turns out that Potter is only shifting his legs, and the digging toes are gone. 

"What the--"

Harry waits for him to finish his sentence, but Draco is out of words. 

They're alive. 

"We're not in the Manor?" 

Harry shakes his head. The grin is still there. "No." 

"We're alive." 

"How much do you actually remember?" 

Draco remembers a lot of things. But he's also aware that he had a very high fever while experiencing the majority of the things he thought he had experienced, so either they escaped on a camel's back while a bear fought off Rosier, or Draco needs to clear up those memories. In short, he's treading deep waters here. 

"Severus," he starts, "He came for us. And you couldn't walk--" Harry's hair bobs as the boy nods his head, and Draco has the most irritating urge to battle the messy strands back in place. They're just  _ all over the place.  _

"And-" and Father. 

Draco's head drops, and he looks down at his bandaged chest and shoulder. He doesn't think about what may lay under the thick white gauze, he also doesn't think about the implications of his father's actions. He aided in their escape but didn't come along. 

His father would never see the light of the sun again. Draco pointedly avoids thinking of such fate. Of how that bastard would flick his wand and torture his father, how he'd writhe and scream on their marble floors, just like Mother. But this time, alone. Without the comfort of knowing that his son was there with him in his last moments. 

Draco hates himself for feeling even slightly relieved. Relieved that he wouldn't have to witness his father's death like he did with Mother. He wouldn't be able to take it. He knows he won't. 

"Draco?" Harry's quiet voice cuts into his thoughts, and Draco looks up. Potter stares into his eyes as if he knows exactly what Draco is thinking about. 

"Your father was very proud of you," he says. "I'm sure… I'm sure he's glad you're okay now." 

Draco wants to scoff, hit Potter, and then punch some sense and logic into the other boy. No, Malfoys aren't  _ glad,  _ they're not  _ self sacrificing,  _ they're self aware. All his life, Draco's parents insisted on such principles. And just like that, when it came down to keeping Draco safe, they threw it all into the wind. As if it meant nothing. 

His entire upbringing has been a sham. His parents are dead because of said sham and Draco doesn't need to hear Harry James Potter with his irritatingly messy hair to tell him it's okay. It's not okay. Father and Mother are dead. Severus might as well be. Draco is… disfigured. 

Disfigured by a werewolf. 

"Sloths can hold their breath longer than dolphins," Harry blurts out and just like before, the chaos in Draco's head clears, dissipates into thin air and draws to a perfect, incredulous blank. 

He looks at Potter while processing his quite random, however carefully blurted words. Does Harry know that he has that effect on him? The ability to clear Draco's mind into a clean, blank slate? 

"They can?" 

Harry nods, then his gaze drops to the coppery looking bowl of water next to them, and he abruptly decides to get rid of it. Draco sees the way his hands shake as he plops the bowl on the nightstand. Harry sits next to him once more, the sound of waves are louder, and a small growling can be heard from the sky. 

No rain yet, Draco can tell. It's just going to be a thunderstorm. 

"Which is funny considering that Dolphins need it more," Harry says after a beat, his body a warm bundle near Draco's chilled body. It feels surreal. And Draco has the inexplicable urge to lean into the warmth as the rumbles grow and the sky lights up with a booming thunder. 

"Maybe they're just too lazy to breathe," he says instead, and wiggles his toes under the thick covers. They're about the only thing that currently don't hurt. 

"Do you want me to close the window?" Harry asks as another lightning rattles the glass. He doesn't look particularly peeved or cold, and Draco shakes his head. 

"It's fine. I like the sound." 

"Have you ever noticed how it smells? Edgy and… electric?" Harry stares at him earnest and Draco finds himself nodding anyway, in spite of being absolutely clueless. Harry seems to know what he's talking about though and smiles. 

"So, Snape is coming back with supplies a few days from now. He left us potions and there's food. We cannot leave this place, or send letters." 

"My shoulder,"  _ it hurts. _

"He said it'll be fine. He's gonna take a look at it later, I'm sure. Are you tired like I am?" 

"I'm exhausted." Draco admits, sinking back into his pillows. 

"Good." Harry says as he lies down next to him, still an arms length away, and barely enough to lay his head on a pillow. "I was secretly hoping you wouldn't be hungry, because I don't want to go downstairs alone." Then he pauses. "Is that irrational?" 

"Not at all." 

Harry hums and closes his eyes, lips curving in a smile that might have been out of place but just looks peaceful on his face. 

Draco sighs, “Yeah, you did tell me so.” 

Harry’s eyes snap open and he looks confused for a second, “Wha--” then he cuts himself off, “Oh. Yeah, I am ridiculously lucky. It's getting eerie, really.” 

“Or unlucky,” 

“Glass half empty much?” Harry laughs lightly. 

“Well, we did get captured first. And  _ then  _ rescued,” Draco huffs, twisting his fingers in the blanket. “Besides, better to expect nothing and be pleasantly surprised than expect and be disappointed.” 

Harry’s laugh teeters off and he sighs, “I guess.” 

Something about Harry’s expression bugs Draco, so he adds, “But hey, we are both alive and right now and you aren’t getting tortured, right?” That probably wasn’t the best thing to say. 

“Yeah, alive.” Harry murmurs, lifting his hands. And Draco, irrationally rears back in bed, making pain flare up in his shoulder and torso, and his vision blanks out for a second. 

When he opens his eyes he sees Harry looking at him with his mouth slightly open, hand still outstretched a little in front of him, but not touching. He is half sitting up now. “Draco, I--” 

“I know,” Draco mumbles, flushing as he gingerly arranges himself in a position which hurts the least. Harry still looks concerned but doesn’t try to touch him. Draco notices his hands are shaking almost violently.

“Didn’t Severus give you a nerve soother?” 

Harry bites his lips and shakes his head, “We have them in the supplies closet, and I…” There is a downtrodden look on his face as he says, “I did take one a few hours ago.” 

For a second Draco wonders if he took the wrong Potion, but Severus is meticulous with his labelling and organisation, even Harry couldn’t have had it wrong. Why do his hands still shake so much, then? 

“Snape said the damage is permanent.” Harry’s voice is so low that Draco has to strain to hear it. Draco knows that, of course. Nerve damage. But knowing it and actually having it confirmed, seeing it himself, is another thing entirely. Especially when most of the damage was done right in front of his eyes. 

“If you change the minced unicorn hair for a centaur's, you’ll get molten chocolate instead of a cleansing potion,” he blurts out. 

“Really?” Harry looks taken aback.

Draco gives a shaky laugh, “Yeah. I once botched a potion when I was eleven, but when Severus confirmed that it was actual edible chocolate, I can’t say I was too disappointed.”

Harry chuckles, “Must have been nice, having a cauldron full of molten chocolate.”

“Sure was. I ate it all in one day flat. Mother…” Draco blinks, but continues, “Wasn’t pleased.” Harry winces, Draco tries to ignore it and says, “Not that she could really do anything about the chocolate I’d already eaten. I couldn't eat the stuff for months after that incident.” 

Harry’s hands are splayed flat on the covers, still trembling. Draco tries to ignore that too. His mother never got to live long enough to see the symptoms of her nerve damage.

Draco looks around, the windows are still rattling with the force of the storm outside. He shifts his attention towards the mutlicoloured shells in the walls, and the jingling sounds of a wind chime being rustled violently. 

“So, where are we?” 

“Snape didn’t say, but I’m calling this Shell Cottage.” Harry shrugs. 

Draco snorts, “Fitting.” 

“They’re pretty.” Harry says, his eyes flicking over the wall Draco was staring at.

“Are all the walls like this?” he asks, and Harry shrugs again, “More or less. Except the bathroom. That’s tiled.” 

"Speaking of bathrooms. We stink." 

"Very eloquently put, Malfoy." 

"Seriously, Harry. Can we shower?" 

Harry bites his lip. "Are you sure you can shower by yourself?" 

"I'm sure I'll manage, I think the bandages need to be changed anyway." 

"It's at the end of the hall. I really didn't look around much. I was mostly here. I'll help you there." 

"Right," Draco says, and hopes he doesn’t sound as nervous as he feels. It’s absolutely ridiculous, it’s just Harry. And it’s just a short walk down the hall. 

"Then maybe we can have dinner, after I have showered too. I lied. I'm actually really hungry."

Draco snorts again and painstakingly starts getting up. Harry moves suddenly, as if to help him up, but pauses last second, his hands hovering uncertainly. Draco grits his teeth and reaches out with his uninjured arm and grips Harry’s shoulder. 

Swinging his legs off the bed, Draco sits up more or less straight, but his hands are now gripping Harry’s forearms. Grimacing, Draco subtly leans away a little, but doesn’t relinquish his grip. 

“Are you sure you’ll be able to shower?” Harry asks, concern lining his face. 

“I’m  _ fine _ , Potter.” Draco snaps, feeling useless as he struggles to his feet, only to have his knees buckle and plop back down on the bed. “Alright, I’m- I’m not fine. Just, give me a minute.”

“Take all the time you want, I’m not going anywhere.”

“Right,” Draco murmurs before trying to stand again, this time he doesn’t crumple again. Harry’s hands provide a more or less steady anchor even as they shake. As soon as he can, Draco releases one of Harry’s arms, righting himself on as little contact as possible. 

Putting one leg in front of the other takes a lot more concentration than it should, but he manages with minimal staggering. After the first few steps, he also lets go of Harry’s other arm and takes support of the wall. He starts making for the bathroom with Harry following closely behind. He manages to cover the last few steps without any support, even from the wall, and feels ridiculously proud of himself. 

His shoulder hurts, in an awfully persistent throb, and he presses his lips together. Shooing Harry away, he opens the door with his leg, not willing to move his arms as they pull at the cuts on his torso. Harry looks like he wants to come inside with him but a scowl from Draco sends him hurrying downstairs. 

Stripping is… harder than he’d thought it would be. Then again, walking was harder than he’d thought too. In the end, Draco manages not to completely embarrass his family name by howling like a small child as he peels the sticky bandages off his chest and shoulder. 

His family name, as if that means anything anymore. Draco rolls his eyes at himself as he looks around the small bathroom, surveying the white frail looking shower curtain, and the porcelain tub. In spite of his better judgment, he heads to the shower, avoiding the mirror installed between the two cupboards to turn on the tap. 

The shower protests a bit with a low cringe before sputtering to a steady stream, at first freezing cold, but eventually warm enough for Draco's standards. He limps under the water and sags under the comforting pressure on his back. 

He stands there longer than should be allowed, Harry is supposed to use the shower after him, and Draco isn't cruel enough to use all the hot water. He doesn't know whether there's a magical heat generator supporting the plumbing in this place. 

His godfather's hideout, as it happens. It's… less elegant, than Draco would have thought. For a person like his godfather, with ridiculously high standards that sometimes even exasperated Draco's parents, the man seems to be content enough with the rusty basin and shells in the walls. 

It is well stocked at least. Draco thinks as he curses under his breath, trying to bend to pick up a fallen shampoo. It smells of vanilla extract and some herb that Draco cannot recognise. Probably Severus's own brew. 

A smirk tugs at his lips as he awkwardly squirts a small amount on his palm, and starts washing his hair with his uninjured arm, his injured shoulder lying limp by his side as Draco awkwardly rinses and repeats the process two more times. 

Three days without a proper wash had not been doing his hair or skin any favors. 

By the time he's holding a washcloth, he's busy musing about the time his parents had first taken him to Diagon Alley for ice cream- at the tender age of five, the earliest he can recall, he had the biggest chocolate orange scoop of his life- much to his father's horror, it's a fond memory, and Draco chuckles, if only for a beat before he realises what would become of his father. 

He knew what he was doing. Draco is one hundred percent sure of that. Malfoys rarely did anything out of mere impulse. He himself hadn't started helping Potter on an impulse. His father hadn't risked his life to save him on an impulse. 

But that raises another question, if his father had done this out of meticulous planning and Slytherin strategies, with the outcome plastered clearly to the front of his mind the whole time… why him? Why him and not mother? 

That's not fair. If father had the guts to stand up against the Dark Lord, why not do it when his wife was on the line? 

Draco stifles the image, snuffs it out of his mind and starts to roughly scrub his skin to a pink, heated hue that's pruned under the steaming water. He has no idea how long he has been standing there. He's honestly starting to feel a bit dizzy. But he soldiers on, and finally after what seems like forever, turns the tap off. 

He moves towards where the towels are piled up, grabbing one and ever so slowly patting down his body, mindful of his injuries. 

Then he makes the mistake of looking up. 

His reflection stares back. 

For a very minuscule moment which also stretches out an eternity, Draco can't recognize himself. He  _ refuses _ to recognize the reflection as himself. Even in the throes of grief after his mother had been murdered, Draco hadn't looked this bad. 

His face is gaunt, thinner than ever. And the dark circles under his eyes look like someone punched him. His lips are blanched of all colour and his skin is just short of ashen. But that's not the worst of all. 

Of course, he  _ knows  _ that his face is disfigured, for Merlin's sake, he'd felt the deep etched pain which still hasn't really abated. But feeling and looking are two different things.

It's ugly, a thick red line gouging his skin from below his eye and stretching down to his jaw. His torso is worse. Two jagged lines where Greyback's claws had raked through him. Draco shudders and closes his eyes, as if it could stop the onslaught of memories and sensation. He wraps his hands around his abdomen and ignores the stinging. And when he tightens his arms, pain flares up in his shoulder and he gasps, eyes flying open. 

He is in Shell Cottage with Harry. 

Greyback isn't here. 

He breathes. 

Really, his torso would be scarred worse than his face. And his face could have been _ much  _ worse. He shouldn't get to complain. After all, there were glamours to cover up the worst of it. 

But he knew he can't hide behind a glamour forever. 

With a last shuddering breath, Draco tears his gaze away from the mirror and the unfamiliar boy in it. 

***

There are a lot of things in the pantry, Harry finds. Things that shouldn't have survived that long in a pantry for sure. Milk, and eggs and neat little packets of magically frozen meat aside, Harry actually finds  _ fresh  _ fruits and vegetables, also under a preservation spell. And by the looks of things, the pantry itself has been magically tempered too. Harry honestly couldn't see the end of it beyond the abundance of food and raw materials all crammed in there. 

As he grips the edge of the dust coated cupboards, Harry purses his lips for a beat before blindly reaching and bringing out a few ingredients for a quick meal, mashed potatoes and some chicken. Maybe a salad. Harry barely stops himself from gorging on the fruit and vegetables and allows himself one small apple, as he closes the pantry and surveys the ingredients. 

He cannot bundle them all up in his arms. He has to make the trip to the kitchen table and the cupboard at least twice, because if he shakes too much and any of the packets fall, Harry might as well fall down next to them. 

Draco comes in, clad in an unfamiliar set of clothes that Harry hadn't seen before, but assumes that he must have found them in the closets or something. Draco doesn't look at him, he looks awfully cross and Harry isn't feeling much better. 

He works around the boy in utter silence, clenching his hands repeatedly before retrieving things, to only momentarily stop the trembling so he can hold things like a normal person. 

Not that he is, by anyone's standards, a normal person. Now he's an invalid too. 

He eyes the potatoes with suspicion as he wields the knife. 'I'm going to peel your skin off,' he thinks with the tiniest amount of glee as he holds the small brown kissed potato in his hands. 

The potato innocently stares back and Harry scoffs, putting the edge of the sharpened knife on the skin, then he presses the blade onto the potato, moves the knife down...all the way to his finger. 

With a hiss Harry drops the bloodied knife, startling a pensive Draco as he clutches his cut finger, glaring at the potato with uncharacteristic malice. 

'You little shit,' 

A moment of silence passes between him and the potato, with Draco just staring from the sidelines as Harry picks up the knife once more and attacks the potato again. And again. And again. 

"Harry," 

Three neat cuts line the exact same finger as Harry bears it in an agitated silence. He drops the knife, and grips the bloodied potato with vigor. 

The potato is infuriatingly still, albeit now covered in an exaggerated amount of blood. The little fucker seems to be basking in it. 

Harry is essentially battling  _ one  _ potato. And he's losing. 

"Maybe you should--" Draco starts. 

"Fuck you," Harry growls and attacks it with a knife again, this time utterly uncaring as the knife nicks his fingers in the process. Draco watches on in engrossed silence, his eyes wary and his mouth slightly open. Harry drops the bloody, now bare potato into a bowl, then smirks at it. 

"Guess who's getting boiled," he mutters aloud, quite accidentally as it happens, and Draco abruptly stands, his chair scratching on the tiles. Harry looks up at him. 

"That's it," Draco says, advancing on him to seize his injured hand. "I'm not watching this blood bath anymore. Come on." 

Harry protests. "I'm making us mashed potatoes." 

"With fingers on the side." Draco firmly but gently toys the kitchen knife out of his hand and takes Harry's hand to the basin. "I've tolerated this enough." 

"I'm gonna shower in a moment anyway." Harry rolls his eyes. "I also would have washed the potatoes." 

"Your finger cuts are bleeding way too much. That's a recurring problem, else that potato wouldn't be bathed in your blood." Draco positions Harry’s limp hand under the tap and turns it on. 

"Huh.” Harry hadn’t known how much his hand was stinging until the cool water soothes it, “I guess so yeah." 

"Does it always happen? When you cut something?"

"No. Not at all. This is recent." Harry's voice is a bitter mutter as Draco looks at him with unconvinced eyes, before sighing. 

Harry watches as Draco holds his hand under the cool but tapering stream of water. They stand there for about three minutes before Draco calls it quits.

"I'm getting you some bandages. Hold it there, and don't touch the knife," Draco warns, looking like he's afraid Harry would take the knife and start chopping off his own fingers any second. 

"I'm not a child, you know," Harry yanks his hand away, cradling it against his chest. His fingers feel stiff and his arm is aching up to the elbow. They’re still shaking. 

"Just don't bleed to death while I'm gone," Draco shakes his head and turns to leave. It’s imperceptible, but Draco is still walking a little stiffly, gingerly. Harry thinks about calling him back, to make him sit and rest, but by then Draco is gone from his sight and Harry is too tired to bother. 

Harry thinks that perhaps he's been too passionate about the potato as he looks down at his pink hands and the stinging cuts. In his pursuit to feel normal for no more than a minute, Harry has turned into a psychotic asshole. He slumps down in a chair, elbows on the table as he leans on it. 

Draco returns with a vial and a muggle looking first aid kit, making Harry raise his eyebrows. Draco waves his hand, “I assume you’d know how to use this stuff.” Setting it down on the table and opening it, he hands Harry the vial. "When is Severus coming? He should--"

"I'm fine." Harry is getting irritated. Shaking, cutting, what was next? Paralysis? 

"I was making dinner," bloody potatoes. 

"Maybe we should have something lighter tonight," Draco remarks lightly as he starts taking out stuff from the kit, before Harry stops him and rummages around for the bandaids. 

Draco sends him a questioning look, so Harry answers while peeling one open, “They’re like small pieces of gauze with a light sticking charm.”

Draco looks reluctantly impressed as he follows Harry and gently places two more bandages on some of the deeper cuts. 

Then sense kicks in, Harry looks down at his tattered shirt, realizing for the first time since they've arrived in this place, that he's still in the clothes he was tortured in, still carrying the remains of a cell. It looks awful, especially with the gory scene of blood on it now. It smells worse. 

He drinks the blood replenishing potion. Tastes like shit. 

He exchanges an awkward nod with a miffed Draco and silently heads out of the kitchen. 

Harry ends up taking that shower.


	20. Wretched Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings for; graphic depictions of torture, explicit language, blood and violence, panic attacks, post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), minor character death.
> 
> ** We will be moving the chapter warnings to the end notes starting soon in order to avoid major spoilers. That does not mean you shouldn’t be cautious and refrain from checking them if you think the content might be triggering. Stay safe.
> 
> Next update on November 15th, Sunday.

_"We men are wretched things."_

_\- Homer, The Iliad_

… 

Lucius Malfoy's eyes have blue flecks up close. Not just a dull gray, but actual vibrant tendrils of icy blue, now glazed and utterly emotionless. 

Evan knows so because he has nothing else to stare into as his body shudders with the aftereffects of waves of intense torture. Time after time after time. His lord had not been pleased. Oh not pleased at all. His missing fingernails can attest to that. 

Here he lies, in the same Dance Hall that also harbors the body of its owner, sprawled only a few feet from Evan, sluggish blood oozing from his mangled hair, matting it down and fading into the dark marble. Evan cannot stop looking in the traitor's eyes, so chilled and graceful even in death. 

He hadn't lasted long under the Dark Lord's wand. Not even a full ten minutes. Evan somewhat envies him for it. For how easily he got away. His bleeding fingers are laced with agony at the slightest bit of twitch, even as the air brushes against the tender flesh where his nails were supposed to be. 

They'll grow back. Painfully. Eventually. But they will, unlike his pride. 

His lord is displeased. Evan cannot blame him, he is displeased with himself, with the Malfoy family's ongoing betrayals. With the failure in his mission. 

He wasn't supposed to snatch Potter and the Malfoy brat, he wasn't even supposed to meet up with the pink bitch to help reign in two bloody teenagers. His mission had nothing to do with them or Umbridge.

Evan had one job. One particular order, that stood behind a bigger obstacle. He needed to get past a room that didn't even exist. The room of requirements. The only problem at the time had been that no matter how many times or how hard he had tried, he couldn't get the damn doors to appear. The doors didn't appear, and Evan's mission ended in failure. 

Except that it didn't. Snatching Potter would have been the perfect atonement for his failure. His Lord had been trying to get the boy since that summer, he had stopped after the Dementor attack, and ordered Evan to kill the boy's relatives. 

Squishy, smelly muggles with gory entrails and no ferocity whatsoever in the face of a blast. Dead. Easy. Finished. 

Just like the corpse of the man next to him, mocking him with his gaping mouth and glassy eyes. Evan cannot hear what the body might be chanting, his ears are whistling so loudly in his head that he cannot even hear what his master is drawling over his head. 

He is in so much pain, that he is more than sure that his body isn't registering the majority out of sheer overwhelmed senses. He might die of shock right on the spot, except… his lord wouldn't allow that. Not just yet. If he wanted Evan dead, he would already be in the same predicament as Lucius Malfoy, or served as a meal to that hateful pet Snake. 

It takes him a while to realize that the reason why his hearing is impaired, is because they have been clogged by his blood. His Lord stands over him, unimpressed by Evan's hoarse screaming and useless thrashing, as if he was expecting better, then flicks his wand and Evan's ears clear with a painful pop. 

He lets out an anguished wail. That _hurt._

"You have displeased me, Evan," his lord says, clicking his tongue, his bare foot comes upon Evan's blood caked cheek and tilts his head to the ceiling, away from the dead mocking eyes of Lucius Malfoy. 

"I'm extremely disappointed in you," Evan's body twitches, violently shaking as The Dark Lord's cold foot presses down on his cheekbone without an ounce of mercy. The force is enough to make Evan cry out again in earnest. Voldemort doesn't give away until the bone _shatters_ under his foot, caving into his face and drawing another mangled whimper out of his mouth. 

Evan does not have a single bit of coherency left in him. It hurts. It hurts too much to think, to be, to _stay alive._

"I had high hopes for you," the foot is moving down to his windpipe and Evan chokes on his own blood, his feet writhing and his arms uselessly flapping. He can barely make sense of the words that are coming out of his Lord's mouth. 

"You disobeyed me," comes the gentle hiss and the subtle press of the man's firm toes on his neck, just in the hollow of his Adam's apple. The agony is beyond measurable. Evan craves death the way a thirsty man wills to do the most heinous of acts for a drop of water. 

"You failed in your mission," the foot lets up only for a moment before pressing down again with clear intent, Evan's face is purple and his hands, in spite of their burning agony are now clutching at his neck, intensifying the pain beyond a coherent measure. Too much is the answer. 

"You abducted Harry Potter and the son of a fellow Death Eater, one with a much higher ranking than yours, _unauthorized,"_ one more push and the fragile bone would give in, Evan knows this, with the same clarity he knows that the sky is blue, but he cannot stop it, he cannot beg. He cannot _breathe._

"You tortured them, unauthorized." 

Evan wails and wails and wails. 

"You let them escape, you _failed_ to recapture them. You _failed_ to stop Severus's traitorous hands from taking the boys." 

The foot is suddenly lifted and Evan shudders, gasping and panting and sputtering for air. His throat is clogged with the same blood that pools in his mouth, partially closing his airway, but he doesn't care, he heaves and coughs, rolls on the floor and cries like a small child. 

He had never known such pain. 

"And yet," his lord drawls, his voice almost soft, he caresses Nagini's head as the snake tangles herself around him, her tongue flickering at the coppery scent of blood. "And yet I let you live." 

It wasn't just Evan. There had been others. Bella was the worst. She had absolutely mauled the Potter boy, oh Evan knew, the brat would never be the same again, Evan knows this, but he cannot say so, he cannot breath and he doesn't dare utter a word. 

Bella got off easy. She got off _easy._

"Too many failures, too many shortcomings, Evan, I'm disappointed," Evan feels the tip of the Snake's tail brushing against his hip and he _screeches_ in terror, blubbering, sobbing as Nagini drops her weight down on his legs, locking him down. 

"And the cost," another click of the tongue. "Lucius Malfoy is dead, Evan. You forced him into acting out. I had him in the palm of my hand, and you burned it to ashes," the scales roughly rub against his bare skin and Evan is so mortified by its presence that he screams merely as an outlet for the over piling terror. 

"My potion master, my precious double agent is also gone, so is a valuable flood of information that I was gathering of Albus Dumbledore and the boys you kidnapped," Evan cannot understand a thing he's hearing anymore. 

"And can you fathom what's worse, Evan?" comes the gentle coo in sync with Nagini's flickering tongue near Evan's neck, right where Voldemort's foot rested only a minute ago. Evan weeps. 

"You touched what was mine," he says. "You put your grimy fingers upon the boy whose blood is the reason I'm standing here right now. You tortured the boy without an ounce of preservation after my explicit orders _not_ to." 

Evan cannot tolerate this for a moment longer. He truly cannot. He wants death, he chooses death, he needs this to be over. 

"Now he's tainted," Nagini's head bumps his chin. "He's stained by your magic, his mind could be corrupted beyond use, and that is all your fault." 

He didn't set a finger on that brat. He didn't! He only tortured Potter three times, three times! All the while the boy danced under his spell, writhing and sobbing as pathetically as Evan is doing right now. It was Bella! She damaged him! 

His lord sneers down at him. "You are a fool, Evan," Nagini finally moves down with a hiss aimed at her master, down Evan's bleeding chest and nestles on his hips. "Just like a mindless child, I cannot leave you to your own devices." 

Evan doesn't care, he wants to die, he wants his voice back so he can pray to a god he doesn't believe in to save him, he wants his _parents._

"You should be thankful, that I'm sparing your life," his lord says before hissing another order at Nagini and miraculously enough, the giant reptile actually starts crawling away from him. "I'm granting you your life, for you to cherish and remember how merciful your Lord can be, even to worthless slugs like you." 

Evan nods his head fervently, he cannot speak. He doesn't think he ever wants to speak again. 

"Do not test me anymore, Evan," Evan's head lolls back to stare into Malfoy's eyes, grey and blue ornate with streams of murkish blood. 

"One small misstep is all I need before Nagini feasts on your flesh." 

Evan hums with pain and in vehement agreement. Anything, he'll do _anything_ for this to be over already. His lord spares him one last glare and then flicks his head to a masked Death Eater. 

"Get him out of my sight." 

***

Harry wakes up with rancid bile already in his mouth. Frantically pushing the covers away, he falls to the floor, and nearly crawls towards the bathroom. Disoriented, and still unfamiliar with the new place, he almost doesn’t reach there in time and expels his guts in the hallway. He scrambles into the bathroom and retches in the dark, holding onto the toilet for dear life. 

That was awful. So awful indeed that Harry wants to pour bleach into his eyes or down his ears just to get the images and the sounds out of his head. 

He retches again. 

Lucius Malfoy died in an instant, much quicker than Mrs. Malfoy's messy, heartbreaking death. Harry had killed the man himself, with a careless flick of his wand that first paralyzed the man, and then tore through his head, spattering blood and brain matter on the floor. Dead. All those lives, in the palm of his hands. 

Bella was easy too, Harry had been almost too gentle with her, two flicks of his wand, she hadn't even screamed properly before he let her up, let her grovel at his feet and pepper it with desperate, grateful pecks. He had sneered down at her with a certain gleam in his eyes before watching her retreat back to the flock of death eaters who bore witness. 

His stomach is churning violently, even though he’s already emptied it. His innards are trying to turn themselves inside out. His stomach wants to come out of his body and walk away as if it could quit its job.

Evan Rosier, Harry doesn't even want to think about it, even though the vignette is purged to the back of his eyelids, the scene is sickening, the things that Harry did to that man, he clutches the toilet and dry heaves into the bowl, his eyes clenched shut at the graphic images. The rancid smell of vomit reaches his nose and he gags. 

He still remembers the way the man's bones felt under his foot, the way they shattered and gave away, blooming a spurt of blood and an animalistic cry of anguish. Harry has never been disgusted with himself more. Not even in Dumbledore's office, in the instant that he learned of his relatives' demise and was immediately flooded by relief. He can almost still smell all the blood. 

With one last gasping heave he sits back on his heels and looks around the darkened bathroom, his chest slightly heaving as he pants for breath and listens to the silent sounds of the cottage. He feels satisfied, unimaginably, and heinously satisfied with what he had done to Lucius and Rosier.

They _deserved_ it. Harry digs the heels of his hands into his eyes; they _didn’t_. No one does. 

"When may I have this one, master?" the snake had asked him as he’d stroked her head. He rubs his hands vigorously at his pants, to make himself forget the feel of her scales. In the vision, he’d merely tilted his head to the side, regarding the mangled remains of the whimpering man. 

"His flesh is too bitter now," he’d hissed to the snake. "He is frightened. I want him to be sweet and supple for you, Nagini." 

"The white man?" 

His eyes had flicked towards Lucius and then he’d hummed. "Perhaps later." 

And the snake obliged, beautifully terrorizing the man beneath his feet, reducing him to a senseless blob sputtering in horror. Harry’s hands had been perfectly steady in the dream. 

He feels it in his blood, the happiness, the morbid amusement at the pathetic vermins surrounding him, at the ones lying on the floor, one dead and one wishing he were. 

Harry flushes the toilet and stands with a groan, trying to shake off the pins and needles that stab his legs as he stumbles to the sink to wash his face. 

He cannot stomach the thought of putting his eyes together for more than a second, much less sleep anymore. The screams are stuck in his head, worse than Cedric’s death, and so much worse than Mrs. Malfoy’s death. Those times he’d merely been the spectator. This time, he’d been the one doing it.

He had done that to Lucius and Rosier.

Draco's dad is dead. 

Harry knows that he knew he would die, but the harsh confirmation is such a shock. 

Draco has no one now.

He gurgles a fistful of water a few times, and mourns the lack of his toothbrush before trudging out of the bathroom into the corridor, and just stands there, aimlessly staring at his feet as subtle tremors run through his body. He grips his forearms in an almost bruising grip, trying to steady his hands just a little. He also knows it’s futile.

He really wishes Ron and Hermione were here now. 

'Go to sleep, kiddo,' comes Sirius's voice and Harry sighs, randomly heading down the corridor instead of his own room. Draco's door is ajar, and it softly creaks as Harry pads in, blindly heading to the bed Draco is resting upon. The other boy is on his back, hands locked and perfectly resting on his stomach upon his blanket. 

Harry hesitates only for a moment before trudging over to the bedside. 

The bed dips under Harry's weight and Draco stirs, before without opening an eye, he reaches beneath his head to wrestle out a pillow from the small heap. Harry silently watches the momentous struggle as Draco pulls the pillow out and chucks it at him, which he catches instinctively, before rolling onto his good shoulder, facing Harry. Then he absently pats the bedside, before his breath evens out again. 

With a small sigh, Harry drops the pillow next to Draco's and folds himself on the bed, burying his face in his aching forearms with a small gap remaining open in between where he peeks at Draco, lying perfectly still and poised, arrogantly graceful, even in sleep. 

Surprisingly, Harry's body doesn't push on the urge to vomit as he stares at Draco and thinks of his father's swift demise. Harry lets his eyes flutter close with Draco in his sight, a comforting presence in spite of their unfortunate predicament. 

He doses off peacefully for the rest of the night. 

***

Harry is giving cooking another chance, and so far, it is going smoothly. Well, as smoothly as possible under the circumstances. 

Draco feels pretty useless, but he doesn’t know the first thing about cooking, he never needed to. Malfoy Manor had their fair share of house elves to do that for him, he doesn't have the slightest concept of what to do with raw ingredients. 

It’s very lucky that at least one of them knows how to cook, and the familiarity with which Harry moves around the kitchen, makes it quite clear that he’s in his element. 

So Draco just sighs and watches Harry beat the eggs, a pan heating on the stove, Draco's fingers are interlaced under his chin as he rests his elbows on the table. Very inelegant etiquette, but he doesn’t think Harry would really care. 

His eyes move around the room, trying to get used to the new environment. It’s quite pleasant, if one thinks about it. And now that he’s had a pain reliever potion, his shoulder is no longer in excruciating pain. The scratches feel pretty ignorable. He can actually focus. 

Last night’s storm is long gone and has given way to a cheery sun, clouds rolling about the too blue sky. It’s almost insultingly merry.

His eyes land on a stool with an empty vase resting beside the couch. For a second, he just stares. 

There are two wands over there. Two. He’d thought he’d left his wand in Umbridge’s office, and he didn’t have a clue about Harry’s. Are those spare wands? They won’t work very well, but at least they won’t be defenceless. He gets up and walks over to the table with a slight sense of dread; better give them a try. 

As soon as he sees the wands, though, he freezes, gaping ever so slightly. One of them is definitely Harry’s wand, he’s seen it enough times. And the other. Is clearly not his. 

“Harry?” he calls out, mouth dry. 

“Yeah?” Harry doesn’t look up from the stove. 

“Where did you get these from?” 

Harry throws a confused glance at his direction, before his eyes clear with realisation, he turns back to the eggs, “Oh yeah, Snape gave them to me the other day.” 

The other wand is even more familiar than Harry’s. With a hand trembling almost as violently as Harry’s, his fingers close around the ornate handle. It fits perfectly in his hands. Just like it used to in his mother’s. 

Father gave him Mother's wand. With a lump in his throat, he gives it a small swish. A cool wind breezes through the room and he shivers. 

“Uh, Draco?” 

“It’s fine,” Draco mutters, still staring at the wand. His father had kept it. He’d thought that the Dark Lord, or perhaps Bellatrix, would have snapped it. But no, father had kept this, and he’d given it to him. Tears prick his eyes, both his father and mother were dead. And all that he had of them right now was this wand. Not really a relic but also a stark reminder of what had happened. 

He clutches the wand tighter, afraid that it’d disappear if he doesn’t. His mother had had this wand for as long as he could remember. It’s like having a part of her with him. He runs a finger over the smooth ebony wand, and his fingers almost seem to tingle. 

He points it at the empty vase, and conjures up some flowers. Daffodils. And with another spell, fills it up with water. The lump in his throat still hasn’t receded, nor the prickling in his eyes. 

When he feels a hand on his shoulder, he startles. Badly. Bad enough that he jumps away with a snarl, and then his side bumps into the corner of the stool, making him gasp in pain. He looks up, Harry is backing away from him, hands up as if in surrender, or as if to placate him. Panic is creeping into his eyes as he keeps backtracking. 

It takes Draco a moment through his haze of panic and confusion to realise he’s pointing his wand at Harry; and horrified, he almost drops the wand from his slack hands, and lowers it with lightning speed. 

Fuck. 

Harry’s eyes are fixated on the wand, hypnotized and mortified by what he’s seeing. Draco calls him, but he doesn’t respond, he’s looking at the wand in Draco’s hand and his breathing is tilted, blinking hard.

“Harry,” he calls out again, this time a little quieter. 

The breathing speeds up, dramatically advancing as Draco attempts to step closer, the blonde quickly reels back and drops the wand, almost completely on instinct. Harry’s eyes dart down with the wand and there they remain, as he slowly sinks down with it. 

“Harry…” Draco’s voice is strangled, he takes a step towards him, Harry’s head snaps up to him, and then to his hands. Upon finding them empty, the panic starts receding, but he doesn’t get up. 

He has no idea what's happening.

Draco wants to keep a hand on his shoulder, to comfort Harry, but he can’t bring himself to. So he just stands a couple steps away, looking at him helplessly. “Harry, I’m so sorry. I was just startled. You’re safe here, I wasn’t going to do anything.” 

Harry just shakes his head, his knuckles are white as he grips at himself. Still shaking. Draco stares down at his mother’s wand and then glances back at Potter’s on the stool. Slowly, he reaches back to retrieve the unfamiliar wand. 

“I’m sorry,” Draco repeats, kneeling down next to him, “Just take deep breaths,” he brings the boy’s wand in his sight, momentarily tearing Harry’s eyes away from the wand on the floor.

“Harry. You’re not breathing right,” in a mad desperate dash his mind wonders whether there is a calming draught in Snape’s stock, but he perishes the thought the moment it comes. He cannot just leave Harry like this, in spite of having no idea what was happening to him. 

“I have your wand here, Harry, but you need to breathe.” 

And Harry is trying, and failing, as if he’s choking on air. Draco never thought he would see such a sight, so unfamiliar and out of place. 

“Just breathe like I am!” He dramatically inhales, and huffs out. He does it again and again, and Harry’s eyes, instead of the wand, are now trained on him. That should be as good a sign as any. 

Draco keeps breathing and Harry shakily follows, Draco’s own breathing eases a little, “You need to actually hold it in your chest for a second,” Harry huffs in response. “Don’t just huff and puff, Potter,” Draco snaps and Harry glares at him, but obliges.

Draco moves as close as he can, within an arm's distance of Harry. Harry has loosened his grip, and his trembling hands now rest upon bent knees. He is breathing on his own now, slowly and deeply, eyes shut, even the trembling is subtler. 

Draco lets him have his space, discreetly, toeing his mother’s wand out of sight as Harry’s is still clenched in his hand. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry mutters once he opens his eyes, previously pale cheeks now tinged pink. 

“It’s noth--” Draco’s eyes widen and his nose twitches, and he abruptly stands up, making Harry flinch. He winces, but there are more pressing matters-- 

“Harry! The food is burning!” 

Harry scrambles to his feet, letting out a string of curses as they both rush towards the now smoking stove. Swiftly he snatches a kitchen rag and turns off the stove before rushing the smoking pan to the kitchen sink and turns on the tap. The pan sizzles and the smell of burnt eggs is awful, spreading around the kitchen as Draco rushes around and opens the windows and the back door. 

“I swear I’m not this bad at cooking,” Harry finally says with a nervous chuckle, dumping the ruined pan under the water. 

“It’s fine.” 

Harry shakes his head. “It’s not, I’m sorry. I’ve been acting so weird, and all this food is going to waste, our supplies aren’t going to last us for long if this keeps happening and I-.”

“You’re doing it again,” Draco interrupts him. 

“Doing what?”

“You’re rambling. It doesn’t matter. It’s just food, I’m sure Snape can bring us more, besides, you seem to know more about cooking than I do,” Draco shrugs. He hopes they won’t be stuck here long enough for their food to actually run out. 

“You haven’t eaten a single thing I’ve made,” Harry points out. 

“Well to be fair, we’re not exactly in top-notch condition. I’ll give you a pass for cooking for now.”

“You’re a git.”

“A hungry one,” Draco smirks at him, a weak one, but a smirk nonetheless. “How do you feel about fruit and milk for breakfast? No stove, no burning,” Draco used to have that sometimes, when he was a kid. Not because food had been burnt or anything, but because he liked the way Twinky sometimes prepared the milk with honey. Their little secret. 

“I’m not sure," Harry hums, "the milk might curdle just by looking at me.”

“I wouldn’t blame the milk,” Draco snorts, “when was the last time you actually combed your hair?”

Harry scoffs, “Screw you,” But he lifts a hand to pat down the mess. Unsuccessfully. 

“Daunting words, Potter.”

“Just get the plates, I’ll get the milk.”

“I thought we agreed to keep you away from the milk?”

“I’m making you drink it if it curdles,” Harry shoots back and they exchange a light grin before getting back to the task at hand. 

Draco smirks to himself. This is nice. More than he thought it would be. 


	21. The Thread of Present Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings for; explicit language, description of injury, mentions of character death and torture. 
> 
> *We are shifting to an alternate Friday update schedule now. 
> 
> Next update on 27th November, Friday.

_"Were it not Folly, Spider-like to spin_

_The Thread of present Life away to win-_

_What? for ourselves, who know not if we shall_

_Breathe out the very Breath we now breathe in!”_

_― Omar Khayyám_

_..._

Living with Harry Potter as opposed to only seeing him in classes for no longer than a small glimpse during the years is somewhat different than Draco had been expecting. Of course the mere prospect of being in _hiding_ with his childhood nemesis is nowhere near his boldest daydreams from the age of eleven and onward. This is a rare opportunity, and he recognises it as such. 

Harry is an enigma. A puzzle that Draco cannot quite figure out, no matter how hard he tries, there's just something about him, a mystic force field that had revealed itself a few days after they had successfully settled inside the cottage. The Shell Cottage, as Harry likes to call it.

They have a routine now. Or, more accurately, Harry has a routine now, and Draco is unintentionally tangled and woven in the bizarre sequence of tasks the same way one might be in the tightly packed weave of a shawl. Sewn in and inseparable. 

Harry wakes up at the crack of dawn each morning, or correction, he resumes being awake at the crack of dawn each morning. Draco knows that the other boy isn't getting much sleep during the nights, even though they share a sleeping place, and Draco's dreams are dramatically milder in comparison to Potter's inner fight every time he closes his eyes. Draco actually doesn't know a whole lot about Harry’s sleeping habit beyond the fact that he's a blanket hog. 

Harry wakes up, and inadvertently wakes Draco with him, by either probing his arm to inquire about breakfast, or staring at his face long enough that Draco is peeved into opening his eyes anyway. 

There are no more cooking incidents, and Draco grudgingly admits that Harry's cooking is a pleasant surprise in the sea of one bleak fiasco after the other. They have breakfast, Harry changes Draco's bandages after he's showered, and then goes to take a shower himself. He's out in less than seven minutes, his hair a right dripping mess and his clothes clinging to his body in a way that suggests he hadn't dried himself adequately. 

It infuriates Draco to no end, but he doesn't say anything regarding Potter's haphazard lifestyle. At least he's not leaving wet towels all over the floor, and that's more than good enough for Draco at the moment. 

Potter washes the breakfast dishes with no complaint, then in the absence of other things to do, the boy walks over to the red worn couch in the living room, drapes himself on said couch, with the back door opened a nudge to let the wind run through the windchimes as he just lies there and stares into the distance. 

Draco watches him doing that a lot. Just staring into space, almost as if he's not aware of his surroundings anymore. There are no books to occupy him, no conversation, although Harry does start humming some times, without even seeming to notice he is.

Songs that Draco does not recognize, muggle probably, it's funny but strangely comforting at once. It baffles Draco, to such extent that he occasionally leaves the book he's reading- The Dire Effects of Moonstone in Brewery- to just sit and watch Harry. 

"All you need is love, love, love," he had sung one day, "All you need is love,"

And Draco had just watched.

And he swears, actually swears that Harry has no idea that he's being watched. He could be staring right into Draco's eyes and he wouldn't be able to tell afterwards. It's bugging Draco. 

He's seen it happen once, when they were in the cell together, the abrupt way Harry's eyes cleared and his head snapped to meet his.

'Just a goldfish matter,' he had said, as if that offered any measure of help. 

It doesn't. It's not, and that's infuriating enough on itself. Draco has no abstract concept of a single thing that goes through Harry's mind, and like an insisting itch on the back of his neck, Draco has the strongest urge to delve and immerse himself in the mystery. He needs a key to Harry Potter. 

The boy in question is in the kitchen right now, banging the cupboard doors and rummaging around, seemingly overly comfortable in the small, but cozy kitchen. Five days have passed, and neither of them has stepped outside the cottage yet. Not even to the porch. Harry tends to glance through the back door or stare at the serene waves outside their windows, but he hasn't even once mentioned strolling outside. 

The way he looks at the sea reminds Draco of the day he had first seen the sea himself as a small toddler, on a trip to Southern France to their villa house near the beach. Enthralled and terrified of the vastness at once. Those were the best days of his life. 

Draco watches Harry watch the sea sometimes too. 

"Have you ever been to the sea before?" He cannot help but ask today, and Harry startles, wincing as he holds his arm tighter, and Draco's eyes narrow. He seems to be doing that a lot lately. It's his injured arm, Draco knows, the one with the knife cuts and Umbridge’s handy work, there's something colossally wrong with Potter's arm. 

It needs to be looked at, probably with the same urgency regarded for his constant trembling and Draco's shoulder. And his cut-up face.

He doesn't answer Draco, doesn't turn to look at the sea either, he just blinks and trails back to the kitchen, silently venturing to fetch a spoon to hollow the potatoes. 

"How do you feel about boiled carrots?" He asks some time later, very cautiously working with the knife on the chopping board. Draco is sitting on one of the chairs, skimming through the book he had found in one of the rooms, the Moonstone one that was filled with his godfather's usual corrections in the corners of the text itself. Even the handwriting exuded smug knowledge. Severus probably had a field day with this book, and if he were just petty enough, he would have actually written to the idiotic author and would have told him a thing or two about the 'delicate art of potion making'. 

Draco stifles a shudder. He thanks Merlin every day that his godfather shows too many antisocial behaviors and straitlaced ruthlessness to bother and antagonize other people. Merlin knows how the suicide count would have risen if that weren't the case. Even Draco's father had less bite than Severus. 

Had. He hates himself for switching to the past tense so readily, even though he knows father didn't have the smallest chance of survival.

Draco is an awful son.

"Boiled carrots?" Harry asks again, now leaving the knife in favor of the peeler, which is marginally safer since Harry cannot physically peel his own skin with the muggle device. At least, that’s what Draco hopes. 

Draco looks at the neatly cut carrots with nonchalance. "I like them enough." 

"Good." Harry dumps the carrots into a pot and then runs it under the tap, dispassionately waiting for it to fill up. 

"I've never been." 

It takes Draco a moment to catch on. He never had that problem with other people before, never had any issues understanding them, or hell, even reading between the lines of their faces, their deepest, darkest secrets. But Harry Bloody Potter is a first in everything so far. 

He waits for the boy to elaborate and Harry pouts as he dumps the pot on the stove. "To the beach. Like, my relatives took their kid every summer. Dudley," He waves a hand, as if his dead cousin's name is of any value to Draco, "They made me go to a safe house in a deserted island once, I was honestly too tired to see much."

Draco doesn't quite know what to do with the information so he just shrugs, running a finger on the chipped swirly tabletop. There's a small piece of carrot left there, desolate and alone. Draco stares at it. 

"Do you like it? The sea, I mean," he says after a moment, tearing his eyes away from it. 

Harry shrugs, an exaggerated move that is disturbingly highlighted by his tremors. "I do, but there is a lot of blue," he sounds mad about it. 

"Don't you like blue?" 

"I don't like too much of things," then he looks frustrated at himself. "I don't mean the sea, that's pretty cool, but… extravagance, in general, doesn't sit well with me. Too much of something is too less for other things," 

Draco doesn't understand that either. He has been brought up in wealth and aristocracy and blueblood societies since the moment he was born. Extravagance had very little meaning to him, or rather… The definition was a tad different from what others considered as 'too much'. 

Harry looks at him as if he knows. "You wouldn't know," he says so, not in a mean disparaging way, but rather casually as a fact. "You're too rich for this conversation." He rolls his eyes in ill-concealed amusement. "I'm giving you extra boiled carrots." 

"I don't have anything against boiled carrots." 

Harry stares at him. "Everyone hates boiled stuff. Trust me. It's an ingrained truth. It gets squishy and gross when it goes cold, and there's no taste even if you dump a whole salt shaker on it, except for potatoes and that's only if it's mashed potatoes with the right milk and spices--"

"How did you not breathe once during that sentence?" He is truly astonished by Potter's lung capacity, more so than his ability to ramble on about anything and everything, Draco is more than certain that any lackadaisical word can set Harry off for hours and hours if prompted. It's somewhat impressive and surprisingly not annoying in the least. 

There is a foolish voice in Draco's head that just likes hearing Potter talk, regardless of the words or their meanings, a very tiny minority that secretly revels in the sound of Harry's voice, the way the words are formed in his mouth, and more absurdly, the way Harry says his name. Draco chains that voice to the most obfuscating corner of his mind. 

Harry scoffs in response. "Some of us have high endurance," he says with a mask of dignity, settling down the slight tremor in his hands by gripping the edge of the counter. 

"And others have intelligence," Draco easily shoots back, with a slight smirk. Potter glares at him. 

Before either of them can continue the thrilling and yet mind-numbing banter there's a loud crack resounding from the porch. Harry's eyes widen, burning into Draco's as one of his hands close around the peeler and the other whips out his wand. 

Draco scrambles to his feet, his mother's wand slipping into his hand as he comes to stand in front of Harry. Both are looking at the closed door with bated breath. He is quite sure that neither of them breathe until the door rattles against the hinges, cringing and struggling, until with a stifled groan it opens and a dark robed man steps inside, his eyes swiftly taking in the surroundings until it lands on Harry and Draco standing in the kitchen. 

"What could you possibly do to me with that peeler, Potter?" Snape rolls his eyes, closing the door behind him with a subtle swish of his wand. Harry glares at the man, but lowers the peeler nonetheless, his gaze following Snape as the man makes his way to the kitchen. 

Severus looks at Draco. "I'm glad you're up and about." He looks passively normal, stolid as ever. Draco tires of seeing the man's face after being exposed to him for more than a minute. It has been that way since childhood. He cannot tolerate the way Severus _stays_ an unwavering constant. The man peers into his eyes.

"How is your shoulder?" He asks. 

Draco shrugs with his good shoulder. "It doesn't hurt too much anymore." Now that's one upside to binging on pain potions, Severus's in particular, highly effective and rarely addictive. Draco still has no idea how the man does it. 

From the corner of his eye, Draco can still see Harry wielding the peeler as he glares at Severus, the man turns to glance at Potter as he feels the boy's unsettling gaze on him, and silently waits for Potter to unfold. 

In a way, Harry is very similar to his godfather, and whilst Severus's face is the exact depiction of stoicism, Harry's face is a myriad of emotions so tangled in each other that they cannot be discerned into different branches. 

"You said no one knows about this place," Harry says, a deep frown etched on his face.

“You and Draco were both injured, and I wasn’t available. Do you really think maintaining discretion should have been given priority if you just ended up killing yourselves?” Severus asks, raising an eyebrow in that deadpan way of his that always made Draco feel small. 

“How’s this place not discreet?” Draco interrupts sharply before Harry can open his mouth. This place wasn't compromised, not as far as he knew anyway.

Harry throws him a slightly worried look before saying, “Moody came here the first day we arrived," he shrugs, "You were, um, unconscious.” 

“What do- What? _Mad-Eye Moody_?” Draco turns to Severus, “How many others know about this place, Severus? Is it even really safe?”

One didn't have to be a genius to assume what someone like Mad-Eye Moody would do to the son of a known Death Eater. And he's been here when Draco was _unconscious._

“I can assure you, Professor Dumbledore, me, and Moody are the only other people who know about this place. It’s the safest place for you right now.”

“Yeah,” Harry mutters, “Just like Hogwarts is the safest place in the world.” 

Severus purses his lips, but doesn’t try to contradict Harry. Harry continues, “And it took you five days to return.”

Severus raises his eyebrow at the messy haired boy and then glances around the kitchen with narrowed eyes. "I consider this a victory." He hums. "Nothing is burnt beyond repair, the doors and windows seem to be intact," he sounds utterly serious in spite of his obvious mockery. "There are no corpses around the cottage, all things considered Potter." His eyes land back on Harry. "I'd say you handled yourself well for five days," 

"You're too salty," Harry deadpans and abruptly turns away from the two to attend to the bubbling pot of carrots. "You should probably lower that, it's bad for your heart," 

Draco snorts, shoulders loosening at Harry’s apparent ease, and Severus half-heartedly glares at him. His face takes on a long suffering expression that often accompanies the man when Longbottom is near. 

Draco isn't as amused as he thought he would be. He's intrigued, once again, by Harry's reactions. He hadn't looked bitter in the slightest these past few days, in spite of the worsening macabres that life kept throwing at him. He even seemed somewhat bright at times. This bitterness seems only reserved for Severus. It even sounds righteous. 

"I don't like this amount of sass and disrespect, Mr. Potter," Severus finally says. 

Harry doesn't take the bait. "Do the others know I'm alright? Sirius, and Remus and my friends. Do they know I'm alive?"

"Yes. They've been notified of your general wellbeing. Not the location, obviously." 

Harry allows a small nod before turning away to the carrots once more. 

There's silence once more and neither Draco nor Severus are obliged to break it. They are both very much aware of the Dragon in the room. Possibly a very dead one. The miasma of it is almost stifling, and has no place in the brightly lit kitchen. 

He stares at Severus, and the potion master stares back at him, his chin idly propped on the back of his hands, the edge of his elbows are just brushing the tip of the table. 

Draco wants to ask so badly. 'Is he dead? Is it over yet?' but at the same time, asking such a question seems inelegant, deformative somehow. What he really wants to know, isn't whether his father is dead or not, it's whether he died in disgrace, and alone, and in pain. 

Severus slowly inclines his head, and Draco slumps back into his chair, unsure of how he should be feeling. He's glad that his father isn't suffering any longer than he should have, but he shouldn't be glad that his father is dead at all. 

He opens his mouth on impulse, almost asking 'was it quick? ' but then stops himself at the cusp of time as Harry picks up the steaming pot and rushes over to the sink, to drain the carrots. He and Severus watch Harry fumble with the hot pot. 

"Potter-" 

"I can handle it," Harry snaps back, and he's not wrong. Even though the steam must be scorching and the pot a bit heavy to handle, Harry pulled it off with impressive deftness, especially with the state of his hands. 

Severus tears his eyes away from the boy and back to Draco. 

"I need to examine your wounds Draco," he says. "I brought some balms that might help with the scarring, two disinfectants, and a skin grafter, you know how it works." 

This time Draco really cannot reign in the frown creasing his face. Balms. And skin grafter potions? Even if Severus were stupidly optimistic there wasn't much any of those things could do to a werewolf wound. Werewolf injuries cannot be healed. It's a universal truth. 

"It won't do much," he feels stupid telling this to a man who taught this to him in the first place. "Fenrir Greyback did that to me." 

"I know, Draco,” he says, and his voice is soft, “but you should at least try them. It wouldn't do you any harm and it might actually lessen the scarring." 

"By two percent," Draco shoots back, his logic was overpowering, it squashed down any hope with hard facts, like a boot trampling ants. 

"Better two than none." 

"His shoulder is more urgent though, isn't it?” Harry says, frowning, “It's been five days, the wound hasn't even closed, I change the bandages three times a day, per your instructions… nothing seems to change." Harry had been worse than Draco about his wound, constantly fretting about the bleeding, hovering like a mother hen. It drove Draco up the wall, but, and he would never admit that to Harry, it also made him feel not so wretched to be worried about. 

"It is a dark curse, simple healing charms wouldn't do the trick, Potter." 

"Obviously," Harry says dryly, and his lips thin a bit. 

"How is the trembling,” Severus asks, eyes flicking over Harry's hands, which Draco hasn't seen still even once since coming back from Malfoy Manor, “Has it lessened?" 

"No." Harry abruptly turns back to his cooking, his back to them. 

"And you've been taking soothers?" Severus surges forward, undeterred. 

Draco interrupts him, "They don't work on him for too long." 

"Draco," Harry starts. 

"It's true,” Draco says, shooting Harry a look to shut him up, “It barely lasts him an hour before he burns through a vial." 

"What about the pain relievers? Are they burning out faster than usual as well? A typical dose can last about five hours," Severus asks. 

"I'm sorry,” Harry blinks, frowning, “Pain relievers?"

"Haven't you been taking any?” Severus looks surprised. Draco is too, even though he shouldn't have been. He's never seen Harry take any pain relievers for himself and like a moron had just assumed that Potter binged on the thing while showering.

Harry's clueless expression says an entirely different story.

How is Harry functioning at all without any pain relievers? After being tortured for so long? “At all?"

"I'm not in pain,” Harry explains, clenching and unclenching his fists, “I'm actually fine, it’s just the fuck… the trembling."

Severus ignores the almost swearing, "No other symptoms?"

"Why are you talking as if I should be in pain?"

"Potter, nerve damage isn't…” Severus hesitates, “There is bound to be chronic pain, pins and needles, some people have mentioned short stabbing sensation in the damaged area. I just assumed, given the amount of damage your body took…" Draco winces. As if being tortured wasn’t enough. You have to live with the pain for the rest of your life too. 

"Is that-” Harry seems to realise what he’s doing with his hands, and clasps them together, “Is that bad?”

Draco doesn't know, and Severus has that no nonsense expression on his face.

"I might need to consult Poppy regarding your case, Mr. Potter," his godfather says, "She has your medical history." 

"Why can't she come here?" 

"The same reason no one else can. The security regarding this house is airtight. We cannot disclose the information to just about any random person." 

"I don't understand," Harry’s brows furrow. 

"He means only people with high pain tolerance can keep their mouths shut," Draco interjects. In a way, he’s almost glad Moody was the only outside party who knew about their location. Almost.

"If they're found, and tortured for information…” Severus’ mouth tightens, “Well asking them to silence themselves is too much of a sacrifice. You do have experience with that personally, Mr. Potter. Holding onto sensitive information under torture is impossible."

Harry's eyes flash.

"You and Moody?"

"Have our own methods. Don't worry about it." He brushes him off, "I'll consult with Poppy over your file. Maybe allergies are at play. Brighten up, Potter."

Harry's face perks up in a way that clearly suggests that he is anything but chipper. "Great," he says, and Draco feels as if Harry regards that word with a different meaning than others do. Great means fucking awful. 

Severus inclines his head and then gestures at Draco to lean back in his chair. 

"I see you've been making adequate use of my clothes," he drawls. 

"Just get it over with, Severus." 

"Will you be staying for dinner?" Harry asks, looking dead into Severus's eyes. It confuses Draco, horribly. What had the man done to him when Draco wasn't looking? Harry is not outright offensive, but Draco can feel the anger and withheld frustration coming off the other boy in waves, even as his face is pleasantly polite, if not a bit snarky. 

"If that wouldn't be too much trouble," says Severus, who as far as Draco is concerned abhors such trivial gatherings with a passion that rivals his hatred for stupidity. 

He gives the man a look. He's planning something, he's always planning something, but if Harry's off behavior is anything to go on, he's not going to like it. He has yet to see what an angry Harry can do beyond hurling insults in school corridors. 

He wants to ask Severus whether he's sure before Harry grins. 

"Great! We have boiled carrots and green beans," Harry's voice is awfully cheerful and menacing at once. Draco glances at him with mild surprise. They were supposed to have roasted chicken and pasta on the side. Apparently, the plans have changed. Harry catches his eyes and clears his throat. "And chicken." 

"That would be adequate," Severus easily replies and turns back to Draco. "Shall we head to the living room?" 

Draco mutely follows, scarcely catching Harry mildly scowling at the man's back in something akin to grudging distrust, before his face is blocked by a chalky wall and the pasted sea shells. 

Laying over the sofa, Draco tugs the shirt off, slowly so as to not hurt himself. Belatedly, he realises, he could have just spelled it off and scoffs, draping the shirt over the armrest.

Severus unwraps the bandages manually, and Draco opens his mouth, but Severus cuts him off, “I’d rather avoid magic as much as possible.”

“Right,” he mutters, wincing when the gauze sticks a little to his injury, which still has the annoying tendency of spontaneously oozing blood at random inconvenient moments. 

“How much do pain relievers help?” Severus asks as he pulls away the last roll and the small cloth of dittany, starting to dab away at the crusted blood with a wet rag he had conjured. 

“Completely numbs the pain in my chest and cheek, and the shoulder is a fierce throb, but not unbearable burning.”

Severus hums, “And Potter has been changing your bandages and taking care of the wound adequately?” 

“Yes?” Draco frowns, he doesn’t actually know what is ‘adequate’ regarding this type of injury, although Harry has been almost overbearing in his worry, fussing and working over his shoulder as much as he could given his tremors. 

“I think we can try a skin grafting potion now,” Severus abruptly announces, straightening up and vanishing the rag along with the used bandages as he produces a heavy-looking vial from his robes. Draco looks at the vial hopefully, a skin grafter would mean that his shoulder would at least stop bleeding. Which would be a huge improvement. 

Severus takes Draco’s left hand in his and touches the tip of his wand to the back of it. Draco winces when a stinging pain erupts there for a second as Severus nicks a shallow tiny stripe of skin from the flesh and quickly drops it in the potion, before closing the wound. He gently swirls the vial and the murky blue colour changes to a deep blood red. 

Severus gives no warning as he starts tipping the contents of the vial onto his shoulder in a small trickle, and Draco's eyes water at the burning sting. He tries glaring at Severys for the lack of a heads up, but he's too busy clutching at his discarded shirt to keep from crying out. 

"I could've cast a numbing spell, but I really don't want to risk interfering." 

By the time the vial is empty, Draco is gasping and his fingers are cramped from clutching too tightly at his now wrinkled shirt.

"Potter!" Severus’s slightly raised voice startles Draco from his pain hazed daze and he looked up to see Harry emerge from the kitchen. 

"Yes, sir?" He sounds almost too polite. The previous hostility hasn't disappeared yet, then. Not that Draco expected it to. He just thought Harry might get distracted from it sooner or later. He is good at it. 

"The nerve soothers you've been taking," Severus says, starting to wrap Draco's shoulder in fresh bandages, this time without the Dittany, "Bring me a vial. I want to see which one you're using."

Harry nodded and left the room, the sounds of his feet melting into the sounds of waves crashing as he went upstairs. 

"The salve?" Draco asks, hating himself for it. He knows it won't really help, and he'd said as much. But the possibility of reducing the scarring even by a meager two percent was better than nothing.

Severus nods and gives him a small unlabeled jar. "Apply it twice everyday. Preferably after showering and before going to bed." 

Draco murmurs his assent as he twists open the cap and scoops up a fingerful of the clear gel, slowly and carefully applying it to one of the cuts on his abdomen. It was wonderfully cool against his still slightly heated skin. 

"Sir." 

Draco admonishes himself for startling again as Harry hovers beside the couch, trembling fingers wrapped around a vial and the hand outstretched, partially covered under the sleeve.

Severus doesn't do anything for a beat, and then he moves as if to take the vial but instead seizes Potter's wrist and pulls the whole boy forward as Harry squeaks in surprise. 

He tugs Harry's right sleeve up and stares at his hand. Draco, too, stares. 

His hand, for once, isn't glamoured. And it looks fucking terrible. 

The area where Draco _knows_ he has the words carved in is a bruised purple colour, and horribly swollen. And there are faint, dark poisonous veins spreading upwards towards his wrist and disappearing upwards. It looks like blood poisoning. But the uneasiness rising in his gut tells him it’s not as simple as that. 

Severus has a stony expression on his face as he asks, speaking before Harry has a chance to say anything, "What's this?"

"Let go." Harry tries wrenching his hand away. 

"Be still, and pray tell, what is this?" 

"It's nothing," he snaps.

"Nothing." Snape's fingers subtly press down on the etched words and Harry yells, "Nothing doesn't hurt," Severus snaps back. "Who did this to your hand?" 

"It doesn't matter." Potter is still trying to pull his hand away, although his attempts are now half-hearted at best. 

"You're right-handed, and this is in your handwriting, not self-harm, yet curiously done persistently, otherwise the cuts wouldn't be so deep," 

"Harry, just tell him," Draco cuts in, frowning at Harry. What was there to hide now?

Severus’ head whips around towards Draco, "So you knew of this and didn't come to me… friend in need of dittany…” his eyes narrow, “seems like this mysterious friend in need is finally found." 

"Umbridge," Harry says abruptly. 

"Dolores Umbridge?" Severus, remarkably, doesn't look fazed as he catches on. 

"She had this Quill, and she kept assigning me detentions for stupid things, then she made me write with the Quill on the parchment until the lesson had _sunk in._ " There is a scowl on Harry's face, which is decidedly more hostile than anything Harry could've made towards Severus. 

"And you're the only one she did this to?" 

"I don't know." Harry suddenly looks worried, biting his lips as he mumbles, staring at his grotesque hand. 

"Potter, your hand looks poisoned." 

Harry takes a step back, startled, "What?" 

"The Quill must have been laced with something, Draco, scoot over so he can sit." Draco, gaping slightly, shifts on the couch, swinging his legs off and scooting over to one side. 

"I'm fine," Harry says. Draco reigns in a snort. Even Harry sounds like he doesn't believe it. 

"You're not." Severus rolls his eyes, "Is there any stiffness in your arm? Any aches that have no apparent origin? Be honest." 

"I guess,” he bites his lips, “it's been hurting for a while now." 

"The bleeding," Draco suddenly mutters, he wants to smack himself. "Why didn't I catch that sooner?!" 

Severus turns to him. "What about it? Tell me." 

"The bleeding was too excessive, for such a small cut." He’s supposed to be _smart._

"I'm here too, you know," Harry grumbles, looking between them both. 

"And a few days ago,” Draco explains, “he had an accident with a knife," he's not sure how to phrase it any other way without making Harry sound like a psycho.

"Yes," Harry interrupts before Draco can worry about it. "I accidentally cut my finger, and it bled a lot." He scowls at Severus, "Does that mean it's the poison?" 

Severus stares down at Harry's hand with pursed lips, "Could be four types of poison, by your descriptions. I can narrow it down to two by taking a small blood sample. Roll up your sleeve, I need to see how far it's advanced." 

"I wasn't really worried about it," Harry mutters. "I swear it wasn't this bad yesterday." 

"The nerve soothers," Severus says quietly as he examines his arm. 

Draco frowns. "The nerve soothers? Could they have worked as a catalyst?" 

"Not exactly," Severus mutters, running his wand along Harry's arm. "The ingredients are volatile in nature in nerve soothers, they can react with any foreign substance in the body that isn't a pain reliever." 

"I'm guessing that's bad," Harry says.

"It's certainly not good, how many vials have you taken?" 

"I don't know… two? I took one this morning before breakfast." 

"And you've been having detentions with that woman for over a month, two, and she made you use the Quill every time?" Harry nods. "Why didn't you go to Poppy? This needed to he reported." 

Harry, naturally, ignores the last question, "Is it too late to fix it?" 

"No, I need to take a blood sample, though I'm fairly certain of the poison's nature. Still, we need to be diligent."

"Why would she poison Harry?" 

"Why wouldn't she? She had a double-edged blade, one for the ministry, and one for whomever she works with. Silencing Potter was the main objective in both groups. We have been too lax with your protection." Severus shakes his head once as he takes out a vial for the blood, mouth twisting in a sneer while speaking about Umbridge. 

"This will be reported back to Albus, measures need to be taken with other students. Hold still, Potter. This might sting." 

"Ow!"

"Your blood," Severus says, "It's not as thick as it should be. This must have caused the bleeding along with a severe lack of platelets to clot your blood. I know what this is."

"Just by looking at my blood? Don't you need to run tests or-"

"No, Potter. I don't need to examine this any further,” his jaw is tight as he speaks, “This is a poison I brewed myself." 

"What?!"

Draco isn’t as surprised. He knows that Severus brewed potions for the dark lord, he knew Severus is great at potions. So really, it was only a matter of time until one backfired.

"I created this poison, it's a slow-acting one,” Severus is speaking, “subtle enough to slip right past any skilled healer." 

"But it looks-" 

"The effects of the poison fade the moment you die from it, rendering your death into a tragic, albeit natural accident," Severus interrupts. 

"Why would you ever brew something like that?!" Harry sounds horrified, and that’d probably be a normal reaction to that, but Draco can’t help being a tad impressed. 

Severus never let him play around with the fun stuff when he was younger, so this sounds just as fascinating to him as it might sound horrifying to Harry.

"It's tactical," Draco answers instead of Severus. "Quite brilliant actually. And handy enough to garner the right amount of praise and attention." 

"It's…” Potter looks between the two of them, eyes wide, “it's barbaric!" 

"Well, I didn't intend to poison _you_ with it, Potter,” Severus says dryly, “I'm a potion master, I have my own set of responsibilities. Brewing advanced poisons is one of them." 

"But if you brewed the poison-"

"No one is aware of the instructions. None of my vials have been missing either. Trust me, Potter, no one can make this poison the way I do. I recognize my work." 

"Then how did she poison me without stealing from you?" 

Even Severus looks a little troubled, "I will look into it. For now, we need to take care of that." 

Draco can see the way Harry swallows nervously before asking, "Please tell me there is an antidote?" 

"Of course there is,” Severus scoffs, he looks a bit offended, “Always remember, Potter, the best poisons are those with antidotes, the worst are the ones without." 

Draco hums, "Because they cannot be tamed." 

Severus nods, "Anyone can be on the receiving end of it, even the brewer. Intelligent people would know, a sharp blade is only appreciated when it's pointed at the enemy." 

"Yes, that all sounds very fascinating," though Harry doesn't sound excited in the slightest. "So there is an antidote," he confirms. 

"I haven't brewed it or the poison in more than five years. It won't take long to prepare." He turns to Draco once more. "You have been treating it with the vials you took from my office, yes? The usual?" 

"Essence of Dittany, Murtlap essence, blood replenishing potion. I didn't know it was poisoned." 

"Good. Nice job, Draco." 

"Yes, nice bonding experience,” Harry cuts in, wringing his left hand and bouncing his leg restlessly, “Am I going to die?" 

"No, she has been using extremely low dosages, to prolong the suffering, I would imagine. It only worsened this dramatically as a result of the nerve soothers. Do not take any more unless I tell you or you've consumed the antidote." 

"So…"

"Dinner?" 

Severus shakes his head. "No. Potter and I are going to talk. Upstairs." 

Harry throws Draco a small smile over his shoulder, it's dimmed but reassuring, Draco hates himself for feeling its warmth.

He's not the only one who catches the smile.

Severus jerks his head towards the stairs, gesturing for Harry to leave, but lingers back for a second and turns to him, “Draco.”

Draco blinks. Once. Twice. He holds Severus' gaze for approximately three seconds, and pretends he doesn’t understand. 

He knows nothing. Severus thinks he does, but he doesn't. Harry means nothing to Draco, and that smile isn't worth what his godfather thinks. Severus sighs and follows Potter upstairs. 

Unwanted, and unneeded warning, Draco listens to Harry’s footsteps thumping on the stairs. 

Unwanted. And unneeded.

***

The bedroom is just as sparse as he remembers it being, with the exception of the slightly rumpled bedsheets and the clean windows, which had been coated in a thin sheen of dust the last time Severus had slept there. 

Potter, Severus thinks, slightly amused, now looks a little nervous as opposed to the not so subtle hostility from earlier. After little contemplation, Severus walks over to the bed and sits down, and conjures up a chair. Wooden and hard backed, gesturing for Potter to sit. 

Potter gives him a poorly hidden surly glance before sitting stiffly. 

His hands, Severus notices with some satisfaction, actually shake a little less than they did the last time he'd seen them. Not by a wide margin, but noticeable to the observing eye. Though the boy might not have noticed it himself. Potter is fidgeting under his stare now. 

"I believe you have something to say to me?" He asks. 

Potter's eyes narrow, and Severus can almost _see_ the scathing remark, almost certainly something idiotic, forming in his head, so Severus cuts him off. "I have taught you for over four years now, Potter. I dealt with other teenagers for longer. So out with it already." 

"You never allowed me to defend myself in your classes." The surly expression is back. 

Severus arches a brow, "I'm not asking you to defend anyone and we're not in my classroom. I believe it would benefit us both greatly if you hurried this up, time is golden." 

Potter stares at him for a moment, and then takes a deep breath, as if bracing himself. "Mr. Malfoy is dead," then Potter's shoulders slump, all the fight draining out of him. 

"Yes." He keeps his face perfectly blank, trying to gauge what he wants to say. 

"I…" Potter fumbles with his hands for a beat. "He is beyond dead. And Voldemort is not happy at the moment," 

Severus isn't sure where Potter is going with this, but there's one thing he _is_ sure of. 

"Do not say that name!" 

Harry frowns. "Why not?" 

"Potter," Severus leans forward, willing the boy to understand. If nothing else, then _this,_ "for once in your life listen to your elders. Never utter a name when you don't know of the power it holds. Never." 

"Calling him you-know-who is stupid," he says, scowling. 

"Calling him by any other name is a foolish oversight." 

"Whatever." Potter throws his hands up in exasperation, not understanding the severity of it, "That's not even the point! I know when it happened. It happened three nights ago, at midnight, didn't it?" 

Severus stills, not speaking for a moment, before- "Is that a hunch?" 

"I saw it." Severus blinks. Once. And Potter swallows before continuing, as if the words are clawing their way out. "I… did it. I think I killed Mr. Malfoy. And tortured… I tortured--"

"Potter, what are you talking about?" Severus' voice came out sharper than intended, and Potter rears back in his chair for a moment, before forging on with vehemence. 

"I bashed Rosier's face in, with my foot. And I splattered Mr. Malfoy’s brain all over the floor. And I stood and watched as they killed Mrs. Malfoy, and you were there too! And you did nothing and Draco has lost so much already, and I'm responsible for it and I'm pretending that it's nothing and you're doing the same thing and that's not fair-"

"Stop." There are tears in the boy's eyes and he's working himself up. 

"I cannot! It felt good. I was exhilarated by their pain, I liked it when Mrs. Malfoy screamed, I made Rosier cry like a baby, I choked him with my foot! There's something wrong with me, because I thought they weren't real, I thought they were twisted dreams, but they aren't. Every second of it is true. Bellatrix killed her sister and I killed Draco's dad. I killed his dad and I was just making us dinner as if nothing had happened!" 

"Potter!" Several tries to cut off the rambling boy, "You need to calm down," 

"We're both an accomplice! I'm a murderer!" He is near hysterical by now, barely coherent, heaving in choking breaths. He looks about ready to hurl his guts on the floor. 

"You're not," Severus says firmly, his voice level even as his mind churns behind his occlumency walls. "The dark lord was the one who killed Lucius and tortured Rosier. You never even left this cottage." 

Harry shoots him a glare, eyes red-rimmed and… desperate. "Then how can I have been there? And done those things? How could you be there and do nothing? Draco begged you. I was there. Right next to you, and he begged you to do something, and you just stared right back at him. You did nothing and I didn't either." _Well, at least that explains Potter's earlier attitude towards him_ , a sardonic part of his mind supplies. 

"Potter, I need you to understand something, first and foremost. You. Weren't. There." Severus doesn't know when he stood up, but he is now standing, an arm's length away from Potter as the boy stares up at him, "Not when Narcissa was dying and not while Rosier was being punished. You never left this cottage or your home in Surrey, you never left your bed." Severus leans down, trying to drill the fact into Potter's head, "You seeing it from a certain point of view doesn't necessarily mean you are the wrongdoer." 

Porter hesitates for just a moment before contradicting, "But I didn't just see it. I felt it! I'm still feeling it. I tried to tell Dumbledore as soon as I found out but the ministry was there and Professor McGonagall was there and she made me go back. Then the whole Sirius thing happened-" 

"I know." Severus steps back, crossing his arms over his chest, "I don't need a full recount, Mr. Potter." 

"I need it to stop!" Potter bursts out again, shooting out of the chair, before going on in a much subdued voice, "I feel so guilty, I've been pretending all the while with Draco and I cannot do it anymore." Potter exhales, long and slow, exhausted. "I'm a monster." 

"The dark lord is the one who did this," Severus repeats, "You were merely an onlooker. Potter, I can vouch with utter certainty, that you weren't responsible for any deaths." 

"Then what is happening to me?" he asks, and his eyes are too bright. 

"I'm sure that Professor Dumbledore will know. He will be made aware immediately, and we will look for a solution. Right now, you need to calm yourself, Potter. You cannot go downstairs like this." 

"Calm. Yeah, calm is easy.” The boy turns his head away and chuckles, the laugh bubbling out of him resembling something that’d suit Black more than Potter, “I just witnessed two murders and a gore show, calm is easily manageable." 

"You've been holding up for five days," he points out. 

"Barely, Snape, barely." 

Severus narrows his eyes, and considers rebuking the boy for his lack of respect, but looking at his face; drawn in, pinched, dark circles lining his red eyes, the tremors wracking his body, and decides that he is, quite frankly, a mess, and deserves to be let off the hook for once. 

"We need to head down now," he says instead, "I know Draco, he's already halfway up the stairs to start eavesdropping," 

"Only now?" Potter frowns.

"His pride won't let him follow us right away." 

"Can you um-" Potter's gestures at his flushed face and red-rimmed eyes and Severus rolls his eyes before swishing his wand over the boy's face. 

Potter takes in a sharp breath and stumbles backwards, eyes going wide. The back of his legs hit the chair behind him and it topples over with a loud crash. Severus pauses midspell and lowers his wand. 

"Potter," he says, slowly, cautiously. 

"Yeah, yeah," Potter mutters, looking away and running a hand through his hair. 

"I wasn't going to hurt you." Severus straightens up, looking at Potter's face intently. 

"I'm sorry, I know," then he purses his lips, and amends, "No, I don't actually know that, just, ignore me. Sorry." 

After a long moment, Severus sighs, "You don't have to apologize, Mr. Potter. I understand that these past few days have been…" Severus searches for the appropriate word, "Quite stressful." 

"I'm fine," Potter snaps, "Great." 

"As you say so, but perhaps confiding in someone-" 

"No, I'm fine, thank you. I'm great." Severus keeps his snort to himself and lets the boy continue, "We need to head downstairs or the chickens burn, at this point I'm taking down a whole species." 

"What do you mean?" 

"Nothing. Thanks." 

***

Dinner is awkward. So awkward, in fact, that Harry cannot even imagine the thought of chewing too loudly, and so slightly settles for lightly scraping his fork against his plate. The fork, which thankfully remains in his hand and doesn’t clatter down to the table or floor. 

Draco for his part seems to be enjoying his food, and doesn't seem to mind the awkward tension around the kitchen at all. 

"This is really good," Draco compliments Harry, as he does every day, and Harry ducks his head into his drink with a small nod. 

"Thanks," he says and Draco nods back, promptly digging back into his food. Harry doesn't know what the other boy's intention is behind the nice exterior, it's making Harry feel guilty, and all… weird inside. He doesn't know what to call it yet, he stashes it away as he picks on his beans. 

"You should try it, Severus," Draco continues, nodding his chin at Severus's plate. Harry's fork does a sharp screech against the china as his hand starts seizing, he lets go of the fork and fists the hand on his knee. Draco doesn't respond but Snape's eyes swiftly shift to Harry's. 

"It's not as bad as my potion making skills," Harry says for lack of a better thing to say. He is now very much aware of how much he regrets inviting Snape to stay over just to force feed him extra boiled vegetables as revenge. 

"Your cooking is definitely better than the potions," Draco says with a snort and reaches for his cup. Harry gives him a tight-lipped smile but doesn't glance away from Snape's eyes. 

"I have no doubt," the man finally says. "However I prefer my meals in room temperature," 

Harry subconsciously feels his eyebrows rise before he shrugs. "Okay. Do you want me to pack you a plate to go, sir?" Harry might have made a bit too much, and he knows that Draco doesn't like to have the same food twice in a day if possible. Harry could put it away for later, but honestly, the man looks as if he needs it, and now that Harry has vented off a bit and gotten everything off his chest, he's feeling more amiable to the idea of being kinder to Snape. 

The man had saved his life, after all. More than once. He even did it today, by catching Harry's poisoned hand by pure luck. Granted, the poison is his creation to begin with, but Harry prefers to look at the silver lining. If it weren't for him, Harry would have most likely been dead in a few days' time, especially with the rapid pace with which he was consuming those nerve soothers. Not only they didn't work, but also accelerated his potential murder.

A murder with an invisible murderer.

No no, that isn't quite right. Because there _is_ a murderer if one was to get tangled in the tangential technicalities. Harry himself was the murderer, in this respect. 

Snape gives him a weird, identifiable look. "No, it's fine." 

It's fine. Harry hates that sentence, in fact, it's right up there in his list of passionately hateful things. Right at the top is 'Great ' closely followed by 'Dolores Umbridge' and 'Pink toads' and 'Squirming insects'. 'Fine' takes the fifth place, while being in no way less hated than the others by Harry. 

Harry might not love equally, but he sure as hell can hate things equally. At least _they_ don't need to strive for his attention like eager little puppies. 

"I made plenty," he says and gets up to act on his passive threat. He's more than sure that Severus Snape would regard it as such. In a way, Harry is getting exactly what he wanted. 

"You could use a meal or two, Godfather," Draco drawls between a bite of his chicken and Harry freezes, his back to the duo and his hands midair to reach the cupboard. 

"What did you just say?" He asks without turning.

"He could use a meal or two?" 

"Godfather," Harry says, his hands dropping by his sides. "You're his godson?" 

Severus clears his throat and Draco momentarily pauses to swallow his food. "Yeah," he easily replies. "Why else would I call him by his first name?" 

Harry doesn't allow his mind to follow through with the mental forehead slapping that is bound to come whenever he's being particularly dense. "That doesn't mean he's your godfather," Harry says, and he has a good point. He calls Remus and Bill and Charlie by their names, and they're not his guardians. 

"Well, you're not supposed to… oh nevermind." 

"What,” Harry asks, “what is it?" 

"You wouldn't get it. It's a pureblood thing," Draco briefly explains, quickly wiping his mouth with a napkin. Harry waits for him to elaborate. 

"You're not supposed to address your elders or people with higher blood status or political standing without their official title. But Severus is my godfather. So I can abuse the system." 

"So… it's basic manners," 

The boy shrugs. "Kind of. I wouldn't know, I wasn't around uncultured wizarding families. You should ask your friends." 

"That's mean," Harry frowns. 

"The truth is rarely simple." 

Harry wants to reply with 'Fuck you' Just to prove the other boy right, before he remembers that Snape is also present in the kitchen with them, and watching this exchange with the barest hint of wariness. Harry flushes and wrenches the cupboard open. 

"We have plenty of food left, _sir."_

"It won't be necessary, Mr. Potter--" 

"Oh just let him have it," Draco cuts the man off and stands as well, grabbing his empty plate to discard it off in the sink. "He made a lot of boiled carrots." 

Harry flushes a little. They are mostly for Draco because he was being a git, but the blonde doesn’t even hate boiled carrots. Maybe he should serve them cold and soggy to him later. 

Snape is quiet for a moment before he says, “Very well, if you must.”

The man's eyes trail away from Harry to Draco and they linger, with a deep meaning behind his gaze. 

Draco holds the man's gaze for a long moment before looking away.

Harry tilts his head to the side, chewing on the inside of his cheeks. What was that about? He knows better than to ask, but he can’t help being curious. Draco looks a little unnerved, and Snape is still staring intently at Draco. 

He thinks about growing up with Snape as his godfather, and wrinkles his nose. 

He just hopes whatever that glance was about, it wasn’t anything too important. His stomach feels heavy from uneasiness, but he tries to ignore it. 

Probably nothing. Hopefully nothing. 


	22. Blanket of Normal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings for; explicit language, mentions of character death and torture. 
> 
> Next update on 11th December, Friday.

_ “Normal, in our house, is like a blanket too short for a bed--sometimes it covers you just fine, and other times it leaves you cold and shaking; and worst of all, you never know which of the two it's going to be.” _

_ ― Jodi Picoult _

...  
  


Draco stirs his spoon in a bowl of what Harry had dared to call ice cream.

It doesn’t look like ice cream to him at all, but rather a very generous amount of yogurt, mango and heavy cream with a dash of sugar that produced an almost sentient looking sludge. Draco would have said something, but who is he to judge?

Harry sits across from him with a bowl of his own, already three spoonfuls in, and in the process of shoveling in more. He seems to be enjoying it immensely. Slowly, with a slight sense of foreboding, Draco brings the yellow sludge up to his mouth, just a tiny spoonful. 

He blinks once and clenches his teeth in order to stop himself from grimacing. 

Harry is watching him avidly, “So? How is it? That’s my first attempt at it alone," he shrugs, he sounds so insecure, "Usually Aunt Petunia makes it, I just help out in the small stuff."

“Sweet,” Draco says after a moment’s thought. It is sweet. Sweet enough that Draco's throat hates him for it. Sugar plus yogurt plus mangos does that, apparently. Getting up to get a glass of water so soon might hurt Harry’s feelings. 

Harry gives him a look, “Would you have preferred it salty?” 

Draco opens his mouth for a retort, but then just closes it. “Right.” 

The second spoonful is an effort, and Harry looks ready to have a second serving. How is he  _ eating _ it? Plugging his nose might have helped, but he doesn’t really want Harry to see. He'd practically been bouncing when he’d told Draco about making ice cream. So as soon as Harry _ does _ get up for his second serving, Draco pinches his nose close and shovels three large spoonfuls in. 

Harry returns when he has just taken in his fourth mouthful and he has to hastily bring down his hand. The urge to gag almost makes his eyes pop. 

Harry is looking at him expectantly, but he seems satisfied at the amount of sludge gone from his bowl. 

This feels uncomfortably like stuffing unwanted vegetables in his napkin, when he was six and his mother scolded him for it. He was supposed to eat all his veggies. Malfoys didn't dispose of food in napkins.

His parents wouldn't care about such things anymore. Dead people rarely did. 

It makes him wonder, about his father and Harry and Severus, exchanging glances, talking in secret. It makes him think of conspiracy. In its purest form.

Draco licks his lips, starting to stir his spoon in the bowl again, then speaks, “You know, I've been thinking,” he puts his spoon down, he might as well bring it up now, “You've been acting so odd since last night, well, in comparison to how you were acting before." There's no such thing as too odd when it comes to Harry. Even the mere thought sounds insulting to him, "I think you should tell me.” 

"Tell you?" Harry asks around the spoon in his mouth. He's caught off guard.

Draco nods. "Yes, whatever it is, seems to be concerning me. You and Severus even talked behind my back about it. You might as well tell me." 

Harry just stares at him for a moment, not in shock as to how Draco knew the conversation was about him, but rather in a grim, blank silence. "I'm not sure you would like to know," he slowly says, lowering his spoon into his bowl. 

"I'm sure it's better than my father suffering under hours of torture before finally giving in to death." He keeps his voice as flat and emotionless as possible, but with the way Harry’s lips tighten, he’s not sure if he succeeds that well. 

Guilt-tripping usually always works.

Harry has stopped eating and is now staring at Draco. Draco shifts in his chair, highly uncomfortable with his idea of a grim joke, but Harry keeps on staring as if trying to figure out something. His gaze is piercing, but not uncomfortable. Just there. 

“He didn’t,” he says. 

Draco stills, “What-?” 

“He didn’t suffer. It was… quick,” Harry winces, and for a second Draco wonders if he’s lying, but then he continues, “Not clean," he fists his hand, "Just quick.” 

Father. Messy but quick. Those words make no sense to him. 

A part of Draco wants to ask, but it is then driven out by a more important question, “Wait, how do you know that? Did Severus tell you?" He shakes his head at the idiotic assumption, "Why would he tell _ you _ and not me?” 

Harry puts his spoon down too, pushing away the bowl a little, “I-” he shakes his head, and his hands disappear under the table, presumably to wring on his lap. “No, he didn’t tell me." He sighs. And Draco is sitting on the edge of his seat. 

Quick and messy. 

Harry gulps, the motion is too prominent in his throat and suddenly it all feels far too intimate. "I- I saw. I saw it happen.” 

Draco gapes, because he’d thought he’d gotten used to the sort of strange things that Harry speaks of, his quirks and what not, that he had thought he would be ready for  _ anything _ that's thrown his way. The sudden bursts of "oh grapes in heaven," and "Why do unicorns feed on nightshade?".

This is a whole other level of surreality. 

Quite unlike himself, Draco forbids his mind from analysing those words to come up with a hypothesis. He doesn't need those. He needs straight answers. 

“So you’re telling me, you saw it happening," he says, and it feels like he’s hearing his voice from far away; he forges on, "As in, you saw it happening in person. As in you were there?” 

Harry averts his eyes, and for a split second Draco is sure he is gonna say yes, and that’d be it. But then he says, “No, not like that.” 

“Then like what?” Draco’s tone is sharp, and he distinctly sees Harry swallow again. At the moment, he doesn’t have it in him to feel guilty. He needs to know. 

“I have been getting these… visions,” he shrugs, not meeting Draco’s eyes, “I guess.” 

“Visions,” Draco deadpans. Well, it’s a better answer than being there in person, at least. But not enough. There's a small voice in his head, in the corner of his mind, the same one that kept goading him into bullying Harry since the stinging rejection as an eleven-year-old boy. 'Scarhead's gone cuckoo in the head because of Auntie Bella,' it says. 

Draco furiously tears the thought apart and stares into Harry's eyes, crossly waiting for him to elaborate. 

“Yeah, in my dreams,” Harry hunches down a little, “They started this summer." Then he pauses. "I saw your mum.” 

Draco stiffens. 

“I saw it happen, all of it,” Harry forges on, speaking quickly as if he wants to get it over with as soon as possible, stumbling over his words. “I saw Mrs. Malfoy and Bellatrix, and your father and… and you. And Snape.”

Harry doesn’t say anything about the Dark Lord. 

Taking a deep breath, he says, “I think I was seeing it from Voldemort’s eyes.” 

Draco hisses, for a moment not even registering what he’d just said, “Don’t say his name, I’ve told you not to!” 

Harry rears back slightly, eyes wide, “What?” 

And then the words settle. Quick and messy, his father and his mother and him. Severus standing by the corner, his eyes stitched to Mother's body, stoic instead of maudlin. Instead of screaming and thrashing like Draco.

“You saw it from You-Know-Who’s eyes,” Draco repeats, slowly, deliberately. 

The abrupt change seems to throw Harry off, but he answers after a beat, “Yes.” 

That is against every bit of logic in Draco's body. It's senseless, almost. It's not possible, he thinks, almost on the verge of hysteria. “How do you know that they’re not just- just nightmares?" He hates the way his voice wavers. "Your… I don’t know, your guilt manifesting in your dreams?” He regrets these words. Not a lot, but he does. 

Especially when Harry flinches a little. But what Harry is saying is too much. He saw his  _ mother being murdered. He saw his father dying. _

He saw  _ him.  _

"You-" Draco starts. His hands are clenched so tightly his palms have started stinging. 

"Draco, I'm so sorry," Harry cuts in. That gleam in his eyes that Draco kind of liked is gone. "I wanted to tell you, tell  _ someone,  _ about this. It was horrible, what happened to you, I cannot imagine the same thing happening to me-"

"This cannot be true," Draco says firmly. He  _ knows _ it isn’t true. It can’t be. There were only six of them. In the middle of the night. Potter wasn't there, and the dark lord wasn't Potter.

"It is,” Harry says, shaking his head, “I told Snape, and he confirmed it, all the details match up." 

So that was what they were talking about before. They were discussing Draco's father. His death. Without him there, with only Potter on the front row seat to the show. It couldn't be possible. "No, this is… no, you cannot have seen Mother or me,” his breath is sharp, “You've gone crazy," he states. 

Two days of constant torture. That must be it. Maybe Severus was messing with Potter, or maybe Potter was making this up. Something huge was missing here, a missing link that sent Draco's mind down in the panic well. 

"No, I haven't!" Harry’s nostrils flare, and voice rises. 

Draco huffs in anger, scowling, "You cannot just joke about my mother-" 

Harry’s eyes widen, "I'm not! Draco," there's a clear glaze over his eyes. "I swear! I saw it, I was there. You were wearing a black-" 

"Shut up!" Draco yells, standing up abruptly and breathing hard.

"I know you miss them, alright?” Harry is standing up too, now, but he isn’t yelling. His voice actually seems to have gone down. “But don't take it out on me!" 

Harry turns his head away, continuing, “That’s what I’d thought for a long time. Mrs. Malfoy’s death… it wasn’t in the papers.” This time, it's Draco who flinches, but Harry doesn’t seem to notice, “So I was sure those were just nightmares. But then you… you told me that your mother was dead.”

Draco remembers. Harry had said he was sorry, in the bathroom that day, said that it must be hard, watching it happen, when Draco had not said anything of the sort. But Harry’s abrupt departure had left him reeling and unable to really think much on it. 

He’s reeling right now. But this time he can’t _ not _ think about it. 

Harry is still speaking, and Draco listens morbidly. He wants him to shut up, but he needs to know more, “And then… on the second night we spent here, I had another vision. I wasn’t sure if it was a vision or a dream, but it felt like a vision. And then Snape, he confirmed it.” 

“What did you see?” Draco is leaning forward now, his hands on the table. 

“Your-” Hary closes his eyes for a second, shaking his head as if trying to clear the image from his head. Draco remembers doing that a lot after his mother had died. “Your father dying, it was just… just one flick of m- of Volde-” Harry makes a frustrated noise, “Of Riddle’s wand.”

“Riddle?”

Harry frowns, “Tom Riddle? His real name?” 

Suddenly, Draco has the hysterical urge to laugh. Of course Harry would call the Dark Lord by his actual name, of course he would refuse to call him anything else. Draco won’t be surprised if he called him that to his face.

“Right,” he murmurs, “Right.” 

Harry is silent for a moment, “I also saw him torturing Rosier.” A shudder wracks his body, worse than any shakes Draco had seen. "Except that I didn't see it." Harry backs off a few steps, the chair clatters down behind him. "I  _ did  _ it. All those awful things."

"Harry--"

"I killed your father. I killed--" he starts backing out of the kitchen, "I... I'm sorry," 

Then he runs out.

Draco is left staring at the table, with two melting bowls of sludge. He thinks, a little hysterically, how at least now he doesn’t have to finish the ice cream. 

***

Harry doesn't actually leave the house. Rather he storms out the front door and sits down on the front steps of the porch, in spite of an upcoming storm, and the low rumbling of the sky. 

Crazy. Now that's a word Harry has been hearing lately. All his life, if he's being quite honest with him in his head. Harry himself thought he was crazy when he started having the visions. 

When one is being subjected to something long enough, they actually conform to fit their conditions. Harry is crazy. He doesn't like it. Doesn't love being different from others in ways that suggest something is wrong with  _ him  _ and not the entire world. 

And in this onslaught of craziness, the visions might as well be the only things that are true. 

He hadn't meant to hide this from Draco for so long, but in the rush of escaping certain death, and dealing with blood poisoning and a mirage of nightmares, stirring up another situation was the last thing on his mind. 

Lucius Malfoy died in grace. His death was bloody, messy, all around, unlike the man who dripped arrogance and rich blue blood everywhere he went. But it was graceful. Fitting, in a way.

Snape had looked so startled when Harry had confessed, Draco looked outright enraged and it all made Harry's stomach clench as if trying to dispel the freak out of him. 

Harry wants it out, at times like this. When he feels that others are wishing the same of him too. They wish Harry to be the normal, utterly ordinary, if not a bit of the heroic Gryffindor his parents were. The way his kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Prunell wanted him to be. Just a normal kid. The way the Dursleys tried so hard to make him.

He stays there as the storm starts, the salty wind whipping against his face with unrelenting force. He sees the waves raging against the shore, as if reaching out and planting themselves on the sand with every wave, unwilling to reel back to the ocean. 

Harry is mesmerised by the repetitive moves. The desperate struggles of the tides, in their pursuit to get away from the storm. 

The windchimes are going crazy behind him, and for what feels like hours, Harry cannot sense Draco in the vicinity at all. He should apologise. With something more than the usual 'I'm sorry'. What do people tell each other when they're the number one witness to their parent's deaths? 

'It had to happen sometime,' Sirius says, he's on the porch next to him, beer bottle in hand. Harry wishes he had some alcohol on hand as well. 

"What?" Harry mutters into the hand that's holding up his chin.

'Everyone finds out you're a loony at some point.' The man shrugs. 'Even the real me got a small glimpse, but what is that old bastard gonna do? He's been around dementors for the better part of your life.'

“I'm not loony,” Harry says, his voice small. Even imaginary Sirius thinks he is.

'Don't argue with yourself,” Sirius shakes his head, as if amused by his denial, ‘Just pray that he sticks around. Ron and Hermione did.’

"Right." 

Imaginary Sirius frowns, as if a thought just occurred to him. 'But you haven't flashed them with the crazy yet.’

"I'm not crazy," he grumbles and Sirius waves a hand. 

'Everyone's a little crazy. You read that somewhere.' 

"The visions were true," Harry says defensively, watching Sirius as he takes a swig of his drink. 

'Do you know why you're telling this to yourself?’ Setting down the bottle with a thump, Sirius turns to face him fully, ‘Because you're scared to confront him. You're getting attached. You don't want him to go, but you keep forgetting that he's just a plebeian dot under the roof. They all come and go.' 

"I guess they are," says a third voice that startles Harry out of his brooding. He drops his arm and straightens his back as the blonde settles next to him with two bowls in his hands. Harry absently rubs at his cramping hands, trying to ease the sharp pain. 

"You've been here for over three hours," Draco says, his eyes flicking over to Harry’s hands, making him abruptly stop the motion. He's right. The sky looks murkier already and Harry bites his lip. A slow drizzle has started, and lightning flashes. 

Harry frowns. "I'm sorry you missed lunch," he starts to get up but Draco's hand darts to his thigh, pushing him down. 

"I don't want lunch," he says. And pushes Harry's bowl in his hands. Draco’s lips quirk, "This ice cream will hold us for a few days at least." The shift in Draco’s behavior is jarring. But it has been three hours, just because Harry had been arguing with himself over whether or not he is crazy didn’t mean that Draco spent his time doing the same. 

Harry mulls over the words and nods when the heavy mango cream slides over his tongue. It definitely is rich enough to immediately grip him by the shoulders. 

Their spoons clank in silence as soundless lightnings light up the sky, and the wind settles down to a mild cold breeze. 

"I'm sorry," Harry says and Draco winces into his ice cream, his face weirdly contorting for a moment before smoothing out to a perfectly bland expression. 

Harry's eyes roll to a sniggering Sirius, standing a few feet away from them. 

'He hates it, ' Sirius snorts and Harry turns to Draco. 

"You didn't err… you don't have to eat it if you don't like it," Harry says, although he cannot see how anyone could hate ice cream. 

Draco quickly stuffs another spoonful in his mouth. "It's good," he says and Harry hums. 

"I'm sorry," Harry says again and this time Draco doesn't turn away. 

"I know, but it's not your fault." It seems as if it's taking a lot of Draco to admit that. "I could do the easy thing and blame you," Harry's heart clenches. But Draco gives him a very dim smile. 

"But I don't want to do the easy thing anymore." Another lightning flash plummets them into a white glow for a split second. "Doing the easy thing got my parents killed. You had nothing to do with their deaths. You couldn't help seeing it," there's a booming thunder, so loud that it startles Draco into dropping his bowl. 

It drops on the steps and then tumbles into the sand, the yellow sludge mingling with the sand. Draco doesn't look too torn up for the loss. He's looking at Harry again, and Harry is captivated by his gaze. Grey and conflicting and at the same time, the most calming thing Harry had ever seen. 

"You're not crazy," he says. "I… I shouldn't have said that." 

'He's not doing his lines right,' Sirius cuts in, looking at Draco as if he’s spouted two heads.

Harry pointedly ignores the sarcastic voice. "It's okay," he says to Draco. 

"Still.,” Draco looks troubled. Harry is sure it isn’t because of the ice cream. “Did Severus know why it was happening?" 

"No,” he suddenly feels cold inside. Just because the visions were true doesn’t mean he’s not crazy. They still don’t know why he’s having them. “He had no idea. But he said Dumbledore would know. He's coming back this Saturday," with that Harry shovels the last spoonful of ice cream into his mouth, trying to replace the chill of unease with mango, and places the bowl on the ground, too lazy to go back in. 

They are quiet for a while, and the pattering of rain almost lulls him to sleep. Sirius too, is silent. The sharp electric smell mixing with the salty ocean breeze. It's almost more comfortable than the bed they shared in the cottage. 

He startles away when Draco speaks up suddenly, “Oh.” 

“What?” 

“You said… three days ago, didn’t you?” Draco asks, voice hesitant as he stares at Harry intently. 

Harry frowns, “Yeah.” 

“Is that why you came to my room that night?” 

Harry’s cheeks colour, he hadn’t thought Draco would bring it up, not if he didn’t on the first morning. He had been hoping to avoid it. He had always been alone after waking up from nightmares, either at the Dursleys or at Hogwarts. But the fact that it hadn’t been a nightmare, that he’d just seen someone die and someone get so horrendously tortured… he couldn’t have beared being alone. 

Clearing his throat nervously, he says, “Yeah.” The sky is clear now, and he can make out the small, nearly invisible scatter of stars. 

“Oh,” Draco repeats, “I’m glad.” 

Harry blinks. Draco is… glad? Apparently his confusion is clear on his face, because Draco looks slightly flushed too. 

“Yeah, I didn’t want to be alone either,” he says, before hastily adding, “I mean, I know you had that- that vision, so you obviously needed, uh, company, but I didn’t want to be alone either.” He looks away. 

This time, it’s Harry who says, “Oh.” Draco’s cheeks darken, his blush probably rivaling Harry’s own. 

The storm has long since moved on when they make their way inside the cottage, the ice cream bowls forgotten. 


	23. Love and War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings for; violence, pedicides/multiple child homicides, genocide, mentioned racism and elitism, explicit language, implied/referenced torture. 
> 
> Next update on 25th December, Friday.

_ "Boiling point. Voice it roars _

_ Running down memory's corridor _

_ Life's a game, it ends one day _

_ And everything's fair in love and war.” _

_ -Soroosh Shahrivar, Letter 19 _

… 

The name stands above him, rusted metal, jagged and heinous, grim and pathetic, just as the day, he arrived in this place.

It doesn't surprise him, the lack of any substantial change in this mudpit, it's festering with muggles, of course, change and progress distinctively contrast that fact.

He lingers by the gates more than he should have, perhaps, but there's no need to hurry, they cannot see him, and he intends to take his time.

Wool's orphanage stands before him, gray and lifeless under the cloudy sky. It's going to rain soon, he cannot remember a single instance when it _ wasn't  _ raining or about to rain in this miserable place.

Of course, he's biased, having deleted as many memories of this place as he could. 

All the same, images start rushing in as he steps past the gates. Cruel images of those squirming leeches, picking on him, throwing rotten food at him, hitting him with their boots, all of them, before he knew he could fight back.

That's the thing about power, just like a diamond, it won't be discovered unless one is pushed off the cliff, beaten past a point of return, crushed and pressed from all sides. But just when the universe expects destruction, it shines, hardened and impenetrable, and not a moment sooner.

He walks to the steps, it's early in the morning, if memory serves, they should all be in the cafeteria right now, gorging themselves on rotten potatoes and bland rice. 

They used to steal his meals. 

The attendant always turned her back when they struck, he remembers her dog-like face with vivid clarity, pruned and pudgy, disgusting.

His hand clenches ever so slightly around his wand, but he won't hesitate to blast the doors open and stride in. He can smell it in the air, the pungent odor of orphans. Lonely and stale. 

He used to be like that.

The thought appalls him, but also makes a smile stretch his lips. Oh, how far he has come. Tom Marvolo Riddle is well and truly dead. And what remains, is glorious, and shall live forever.

The death eaters behind him have started shifting restlessly, but know better than to voice their complaints. 

It’s time. 

***

She's wearing her lucky pendant today. Just for this very occasion, she's dug into her barely touched jewelry box to find it. It was in Cissy's room, of course, beneath a drawer in a secret compartment where she kept the Black heirlooms. Bella already knew it would be there. Cissy used to have a lot of these rat holes in her own room back at their house as well. Bella used to drop dead roaches in some just to mess with her when they were children.

She won't be around to provide entertainment anymore, but Bella doesn't mind much. In fact, even thinking about  _ why  _ her sister and her husband aren't around in their own Manor shoots a spark of indignation right into her chest. Bella's fists clench as she looks down on the small knick-knacks. Her jewelry box in the very center and a stack of bound letters on the top. She carelessly snatches the stack of letters and turns it around. 

_ To my beloved.  _ It reads. 

She huffs a laugh, Cissy was certainly getting a lot of it back in Hogwarts. If their mother had gotten a whiff of these letters… oh well she wouldn't. Bella tosses the letters away. She's dead. So is Daddy. And Cissy… and Andy might as well be. 

She opens her box and briefly rummages through the content. A lot of rings, rare pearls, and shining accessories, Bella could care less. She wasn't always one for dress-ups, much to her mother's dismay. 

"But who's going to marry you like this?" she would wail when Bella strutted around in rumpled robes and her curly hair unbound, tired, and worn out after intense dueling sessions. 

No worries about that now. Bella thinks as her fingers finally close around the delicate chain. 

"Ready yet? We're leaving in ten," a husky voice comes from behind and Bella smirks, turning around like a whip to face her husband. 

"Ready, baby," she growls against his lips and teasingly draws away before he could dive in for a kiss. They have a mission. And Rudolph knows how much Bella hates distractions before a mission. He knows that he always comes second to their Lord's commands, knowing it from the start. And eighteen years into their marriage, he has yet to protest even once. 

Bella thinks that's as close as one gets to love. But she doesn't particularly feel compelled to label it as such. Her relationship with Rudolph is an investment. A business deal. 

He tugs at her waist but then lets her stride out of the barren room, her heels loudly clicking against the floor, the pendant cold and somewhat heavy against her breasts, she feels excitement bubbling in her blood. 

Today is going to be  _ such  _ a good day. 

Her team gathers at the gates, just a few yards away from the rose gardens and the peacocks, Bella always feels the urge to roll her eyes as she catches sight of those annoying creatures. Narcissa had forced Lucius’ hand into her own brand of dramatic ideals, it seems. No way they would survive much longer. Neither them nor the rose gardens, Bella and her lord could care less about the exterior, about dead things. 

Memento mori. 

Remember that you must die. She has lived by that quote since the day she learned of it. It made life in Azkaban tremendously easier on her and Rudolph, any amount of suffering is made easier when one sees the end of the tunnel. Everything is transient. Everything dies. And so the suffering is redundant. 

Bella doesn't understand the people who don't get that. The  _ boring  _ kind who just writhe and scream and thrash and  _ go insane.  _ They're all wussies, especially the muggles. It gives her such headaches sometimes that she craves cutting out their useless tongues first. Get it done in the beginning. 

Sometimes though, sometimes she  _ loves  _ it when they scream. Only the fascinating ones though. Like the Potter brat, oh she rejoiced in his cries. She could only remember one other instance of ecstasy, and that was the night she encountered Alice Longbottom. She screamed like he did. Except she did it for longer, never to scream ever again. 

Bella's hand sweetly clenches around her wand as she approaches her group with a snarl fixed on her face, Rudolph is by her right shoulder. Her second in command. 

"You know your orders already," she snaps, "As much havoc as you want. Our Lord didn't specify numbers. Steer clear out of our way or you'd be the dead corpse on the ground. Don't bring back any trinkets." 

The masked heads nod and disappear in a dark shadowed swirl. Bella barely hesitates herself before doing the same. She knows that Rudolph is following. She doesn't wait around for the initiation, by the time she's in the main streets there are already screams and plumes of smoke crowding the air, stifling the narrow street. 

She pays none any attention, with the grace of a long time trainer, she steps over the mangled body parts and dropping corpses, the whining ones she crushes with her heels and leaves for the others, like fragile snail shells, the spells, she easily deflects without a concern. Rudolph has her back. 

"Don't wander too far away," she mutters to her partner as they come to stand before the tall crooked building. She knows this by heart. She won't fail. Not like Rosier did. 

Rosier is nothing but a child trying to imitate his elders. It was an amusing sight at first, but Bella tired of it quickly. He has no originality, no  _ gusto.  _ Even Lucius had his own flair, his own style. Rosier was a copycat. The worst kind. 

Not an ounce of pain that he had elicited from others was genuine. It wasn't a game to him. It was a poor imitation of enjoyment. 

Bella pushes the thoughts aside and flicks her wand, blasting the glass door back to reveal the long marble hall, the Gringotts bank stands in its grace, suspended into stillness as Bella calmly makes her way into the vast hall. 

Most of the Goblins are shocked into a dazed silence, the two guards standing near the swirling pillars are taken care of without a waste of breath. She makes her way to the head Goblin. 

"Take me to my vault," she says, smirking and staring at the quivering creature, the end of her wand is trained on his heart. 

The Goblin scrutinizes her for a beat, and then gulps, shakily dropping his Quill with a dulled sound. Bella rolls her eyes. "The more you keep me waiting, the worse off you're gonna be," 

These words propel the Goblin into frantic action. He scrambles off his high seat and extends a small quivering hand. "Your-your key, madam Lestrange?" 

Bella frowns in annoyance. Key. Ugh, how she wanted to blast that puny little vermin into a hole in the wall. She does, carelessly flinging him to the nearest pillar with a single wave of her wand. The sound of chaos is blasting into the ghostly silent bank from the blasted doors. 

"This one's out of commission," she pleasantly drawls, turning to face the horrified faces. "Come up with another before I lose my patience." 

They're on a time limit here. Her team isn't the only one that needed to be finished by an hour. McNair and Yaxley were taking over the ranks they led into Hogsmead, the closest vicinity to Hogwarts that wasn't protected by the wards. 

And their Lord himself, he is leading the mission over to a filthy muggle orphanage. Her Lord had said he had some business there and will reveal his plans later. Something to go back for. She didn’t understand that. She could never understand attachments to the past or to places. But the Dark Lord always knows what he is doing. 

And one more destination means fewer muggles anyway. 

Their mission so far is going splendidly, by what Bella is hearing. The commotion outside the bank, the little pathetic Aurors and their useless skills. They're falling right into the honey-covered trap. Bella's smirk expands as the annoying creature scrambles to her and bows. 

"I will take you to your vault, Madam Lestrange. Please this way," 

Just as she's about to follow, a portion of the wall crumbles by a shouted curse, and a few Aurors rush inside the building. Bella throws a smirk at her husband over her shoulder. 

"Take your time, darling," she says and follows the Goblin, her wand trained to his worthless head the entire time. She could have his brains decorating the marble floors. She would, after she's finished with him. 

"See you soon, beloved," Rudolph turns and whips his wand, lashing the hall into an uproar. Bella loves him when he's like this. Bold, and teasing. 

They're going to have a lot of fun after this mission, she knows. 

The yells turn into screams. 

***

The air is unusually chilling today, even in spite of the warming charms on his robes and the closed window in his office, Wallwind still feels it in his bones, a cold unrelenting grip that's holding him down in his chair. The typewriter sits in front of him, innocuous in its blankness. 

He cannot think of a single thing to write. 

With a frustrated groan, he flexes his fingers and pushes his chair back. He needs a walk. Maybe a small trek to the lower offices to see what's up with his colleagues. 

Yes. That and another warming charm would do. With a resolute nod, Wallwind stands and walks out of his office, noting with a sense of dread that the usual bustle of the publishing center is shockingly subdued. In fact, the loudest noise ringing in his ears is the sound of his own shoes. He pauses, looks at his huddled mob of reporters and the typers, all inspecting something. 

"What's going on?" he asks, the chill previously cloaking his bones is now seeping into his skin. 

Henry, the photographer looks up from the trembling piece of parchment in his hands, the ones the others are all huddled around, inspecting it in a grim silence. He's silent. 

Wallwind steps closer and then looks at Charles. "What is going on?" 

It's not Charles, neither Henry who answers him, rather Edith, their secretary who stares deep into his eyes. "You're not gonna fucking believe this, John," she says. 

Then their office erupts. 

***

**SYNCHRONIZED ATTACKS, LONDON, DEVON, HOGSMEADE, AND DIAGON ALLEY;** MORE THAN NINETY DEAD, AND HUNDREDS INJURED

**DEATH EATERS STRIKE AGAIN; NINETY-SEVEN DEAD, THE COMMUNITY IN TATTERS**

**THE RETURN OF YOU-KNOW-WHO; MINISTRY PARTIALLY DAMAGED**

**"SURRENDER OR SUFFER": HE WHO MUST NOT BE NAMED INFILTRATES THE MINISTRY**

**WIZARDING WORLD IN PANIC, WHAT COMES NEXT?**

**BLOOD RUNS RIVERS IN MUGGLE ORPHANAGE, CONFUSION ROARS!**

Ron looks at each headline with dismay, the papers are strewn all around them. He and Hermione are in his dorm, sitting on his bed, surrounded by copies and copies of newspapers, creeping around them, crinkling as each of them twitched. 

Hermione has her hair up, she's not dressed in her uniform, neither is Ron, there are no classes anymore. Nor will it be for the foreseeable future, the attacks have been hard on them. On everyone really. The only reason that most of the students weren't gone was because of the renewed wards and the Aurors around. Still. Without Dumbledore in the school, things were hectic. 

Hermione crumples a tissue in her hand and sniffs, "Oh this is just…" she doesn't finish her sentence and looks away, subtly peeking through the drawn curtains at Harry's vacant unmade bed. That's how the boy had left it before he vanished. Ron follows her gaze and then swallows.

This is horrifying, it makes his stomach twist and the back of his mouth sting with bile. Hermione doesn't look any better. 

They hadn’t only attacked Diagon Alley, Hogsmead, Devon, and the Ministry, they’d, for some reason, also attacked a muggle orphanage. 

Killing every single occupant.

He couldn’t understand it, he could never understand it. How could someone lift their wand and do something so barbaric? To children? How could they look at themselves in the mirror ever again? Lift their own wands ever again after doing something so horrendous? 

He feels sick with worry. Actually sick. As if he needs to empty his stomach the moment the gnawing sensation becomes too much. It usually happens when he's thinking about Harry.

These were helpless muggles that had nothing to do with you-know-who. Harry is someone he actively hates and seeks out. 

Never before had the urge to grab Harry and hide him under the bed been stronger. Because if he had, then they wouldn't be here while he was away.

Kidnapped Harry. Then rescued Harry. Alone Harry…. Or the possibility of something worse, Harry with Malfoy. 

Hermione's eyes catch his and he knows that she knows what he's thinking about. "They told us he's safe now." 

They did. Although, the way they looked suggested as if they were merely skeptical themselves. Ron's mom wouldn't stop crying, Bill looked nauseous, and Sirius was beside himself. 

"Albus says he's out," his father kept telling him and Hermione. Hermione kept asking questions, firing off one after the other at a rapid pace that only Ron could keep up with. 

"Is he okay?" 

"I don't know," his father had replied but she had already moved on. 

"Injured?" 

"I don't know, Hermione," he’d repeated, Ron’s own heart sinking further with every question and subsequent answer. 

"Well fed, alone? Does he need medical assistance? Is there any way we could send any letters, can he come back? Why isn't he here already? Is there still a threat? Why did they want him? Did he talk to you? Could he talk at all-" 

Arthur Weasley had given up and just gazed at her, shaking his head slightly as each question wavered in volume before Hermione sagged back in her seat. Ron sat tersely on the edge of his own. 

"Is there anything that you do know?" He had asked, he remembers how thirsty he was when he did. The worst three days of his life. 

"Not much, Ron," his dad had said and the other adults nodded in unison, looking just as miserable. Remus actually hugged Hermione. 

"But we know that he's alive," Ron had asked, confirming. He needed to. 

"He's alive," Ron says now, looking down at the bold, terrifying letters beneath them. His blanket is shriveled up into a ball behind Hermione, a tiny bit of it had been dragged up and settled on her shoulders. 

"Do we know that Ron?" she rubs her face with weary hands. "God, nighty seven people are dead! The children... More than a hundred injured… who knows where Harry is right now." Her eyes are red and puffy. She’d been absolutely devastated at the news, launching into a hysterical rant while Ron could only stare in shock. 

Ron knows. He knows every bit of this. He's lost his footing in the game, and he's spiraling down and down an endless pit, with no pawns, no playing ground. Nothing. It's a shitty feeling. 

"He could be anywhere," 

They could be lying. That's what she's suggesting. Not too far fetched, but not too likely. They wouldn't do that to them. Ron doesn't think his parents are above doing that but Sirius is. Sirius would be the only one who might tell them if the others were lying. 

Harry is alive. Apparently safe too. 

But they're not with him. It's like summer all over again. This time without the stilted letters. Ron had no idea how much he should have appreciated those. 

His gaze falls down on his bandaged hand almost on impulse, Ron regards it with a hint of hatred, petty anger before he notices Hermione doing the same. 

"I cannot believe he didn't tell us," she says, nodding at his hand. Ron shrugs, he can still remember the stinging cuts etching themselves into his left hand as he wrote, and even though the pain then was a foreign, unexplored branch of pain Ron had never felt before, what hurt more than that was thinking about the fact, that Harry had been doing this almost every day since the start of the term. 

It was nauseating, it still is the longer Ron thinks about it. 

_ I shall remain respectful.  _

It's on the back of his hand now, and Ron barely cared. He had all but scrambled out of her office, fuming, and shaking with the realization that this was really happening before going right to Hermione. 

"Me neither," he says, but in all honesty isn't surprised by it. It's just the way Harry is. He never admits his pain to anyone, even if it kills him, the whole pork incident drove him to sickness before  _ Ron  _ found out by himself. He'd walk on a broken leg before complaining. 

"That vile woman...that-" she huffs, "That bloated toad!" 

"We cannot report her, she's the headmistress," they don’t know why Harry didn’t. When Dumbledore was the headmaster, except for being a self-sacrificing idiot. Ron is so going to kill him when he's back. 

"I know," Hermione says, "But we can at least mention it to McGonagall, I don't think the younger students can take these… torture sessions." 

With the attacks though, Ron thinks that detentions and Umbridge are the last things on anybody's mind. The classes are out anyway, Hogwarts is more of a sanctuary than a school now. A fortress. 

"We will."

She plucks up one article for the umpteenth time, the one with  _ his  _ speech in it. 

The paper rattles in her hands. She's worried. Worried sick just like Ron. Honestly, if the security weren't so tight in the school right now, she and Ron would have sneaked out to find Harry a long time ago. Out there somewhere, doing  _ something.  _ Instead of sitting here, frightened like small children, sniffling and hiding in their beds. 

"Don't do this to yourself," he warns her and she scowls. 

"What else is there to do, Ronald?" she snaps. "We're trapped here with nothing else to do. Harry is  _ gone,  _ almost a hundred people are dead. We need anything we can get our hands on, and everything, even  _ his  _ words are worth something," 

"Read it aloud then." 

She pauses. "Are you sure?" Ron might have had a bit of a strong reaction to hearing the speech the first time around. His father and Percy were there, among the crowd of confused ministry workers in the atrium when it happened, kneeling on the hard marble ground before that despicable monster. Ron had punched a hole through the wall accordingly.

Ron had never been so afraid for his father's life. He had actually  _ hugged  _ a shaken Percy in McGonagall’s office, afterwards when they had all floo-ed over. 

"Ronald," she says again, this time her face is considerably closer to his. Ron stifles the tiny urge to close in the space and kiss her tears away and leans back. Hermione rustles the paper with a small frown. "Are you sure?"

Not really. He's not sure of much anymore. The only thing he  _ is  _ sure of, is that he misses his best friend, especially now, with the attacks. He misses a lot of things that came with Harry and are now gone. They keep Hedwig in the dorm now, the owlery was too far away for constant checking, and Hermione had to have  _ some  _ evidence of Harry around them. 

So they snuck Hedwig back into the dorms, no one complained about her presence and she's asleep in her cage now. 

It's funny how nicer people become once someone gets kidnapped. Or dies.

"Just read it," he says and pushes some of the papers aside to extend his lanky legs, all cramped up and stabbed by tiny needles, they brush against Hermione's knee. 

Ron very pointedly pushes the funny feeling in his stomach  _ away.  _ This really isn't the time. 

"I am aware and saddened by the state of the wizarding community today," she starts. "Some of you may be alarmed by my abrupt presence, but I have been present, among you all for a very long time, I have been giving signs for those who have learned to listen, and see. I am disappointed in what I see, in what has been done to thousands of year's worth of culture, and pure talent, our gift that came to our ancestors with a heavy price." She pauses to breathe. 

"All this muddling, all this filth that has been trudged around by our community for centuries is a devastating loss to our roots." Her lips curl in disgust. "I assure you all, that the great Merlin himself is weeping at the state of us. I do not ask for such a hefty price, I do not shed pure magical blood, what I intend to do is in the name of magic itself. I'm purifying the filthy, plucking out the unworthy, when I am finished only the best will remain. 

"The vermin fights and rebels against me, as do all parasites, the unwanted, however, Lord Voldemort is merciful to those who ask for redemption. Those who recognize their wrongdoings. There is no need for a war, no need for bloodshed and tears. Not if you comply with what is a universal truth. 

"This is a direct message to those who follow a corrupt government, oblige the likes of Minister Fudge, and Albus Dumbledore. Be warned and aware, or you will pay the price." 

"Fudge is so screwed," Ron mutters.

"He's going to be indicted for sure," Hermione agrees. "I cannot believe he was hiding in his office the entire time this was happening." 

"I can. He's a fucking coward. The Ministry with no minister." 

"For now, there has to be some emergency measures in place, right?" 

Ron shrugs. "Sure, but what good is it gonna be? That snake faced bastard just walked right in, without a single scratch, killed a dozen people, threw a fifteen-minute speech, and then just  _ apparated  _ out." 

"The order is still working," Hermione counters half-heartedly, desperate to cling to some measure of hope, or control. 

"That's our only hope," Ron replies, distractedly. This all seems very… on the nose. Almost too dramatic. Ron wasn't born during the first war, in fact, his mother had had him merely twenty months or so before the first war ended. A whole year after his uncles were tortured and then killed. 

His family never discussed war much, when he was a child, Ron grew up alongside Ginny, hearing about the Boy who lived, the savior, and not much more. For the majority of his life, You-know-who was only a boogeyman in a ghost story. 

Bill and Charlie were children then, and they remembered some bits, Charlie not as much, but Bill definitely did, as a nine-year-old victim himself. Mom and Dad didn't talk about it much, but apparently, some Death eater had taken Bill for a short while before just letting him go. 

"They were terrifying," Bill had said many years later, in private as he and Charlie were conversing. Ron was eavesdropping then, his ear flat against the door. "I remember this muggle woman they had abducted with me and they were taunting her, and she kept screaming, I cannot even remember why. There were two of them, after a while, the Death Eater woman just… let me go. I couldn't talk for months," 

"Mom and Dad went mental," Charlie had said. "I remember that," 

Ten-year-old Ron who had not been privy to this information before, had not divulged it to another soul for a whole other week before Bill noticed his odd clingy behavior. 

"It was ages ago, Ronnie," he had assured the small boy. "Charlie and I barely remember it now." He was kneeling in front of him, looking right into his eyes. 

"One thing I can tell you though," he said. "It was nothing I had ever seen before. I don't think I'll ever see something like that again. They weren't putting up a show, even I knew that as a child. They just struck for the kill," 

Struck for the kill.

Then why would their leader put up such a power show? Something doesn't add up. 

Find a random building, filled to the brim with Muggle children, and then massacre every single one for no reason. The location has no strategic value, it's nowhere near the ministry, the orphanage itself is unknown, and insignificant, the children inside… more so.

This doesn't seem like the type of move someone makes when they strike for the kill.

He leaps off the bed, hand throbbing and his mind whirling as he ducks his uninjured hand under the bed to fish for his playing set, Hermione cranes her neck and peers at his rummaging arm.

“What are you doing?” she asks in that squeaky high voice of hers when she’s particularly agitated.

“I’m reading between the lines,” Ron says as his fingers finally brush against the wooden board. He quickly crumples a few papers on the bed to make a place for his chess set.

“Ron this isn’t the time--.”

“This doesn’t make sense.” Ron cuts her off, setting the grumbling pieces with lightning speed moves that only came with years of experience. “That speech, the orphanage attack? It doesn’t make sense. It's like trying to sell oranges and apples as the same thing--"

"Technically they're both fruit--"

" Kill a bunch of muggles? Sure. Kill a bunch of muggleborns all huddled together? Absolutely. But a  _ random _ orphanage, not even near the vicinity of the ministry, with no known significance? If he wanted a way into the ministry he could have easily had another one planned out, he just  _ waltzed  _ out of it the moment he was finished with the speech. Then why,  _ why  _ attack the other places?”

The black king stares at Ron and the redhead frowns. “Four separate attacks. Three locations and one blind shot. Just to disperse the Aurors? Why would he?” It made no strategic sense. 

“Why wouldn’t he?” Hermione sounds exasperated. 

“Because he doesn’t need to! The Aurors wouldn't have known about the fourth location, it wasn't even reported in the first place!” Ron exclaims. And then quickly plucks more than half of the white pawns off the set. “Don’t you see? His numbers easily outnumber the Aurors,” he dumps the white pawns on his mattress. “If You-know-who wanted the ministry, he could have had it, the Ministry wouldn’t have been ready for it. Instead, he sends his most loyal servant… Malfoy’s  _ aunt  _ to break into Gringotts and take nothing out of her vault? And he  _ himself _ attacks a  _ muggle orphanage! _ ”

Hermione slowly settles back in her seat, “So he had an ulterior motive.”

“It only makes sense if he did,” If the black queen is Bellatrix, then why would he send her away? She was the most powerful after you-know-who himself, if he wanted to make an image, or subdue people into obeying him he would have had Bellatrix with him. He sent her away, but she wasn’t just leading the attack, she had another initiative. 

This was a misdirection. Ron picks up the black queen and holds it above the white rook. 

“What if this was all a sham?” he says and flushes when Hermione scowls at him.

“Ron, ninety-seven people are dead,” she says hotly, swatting him with the paper in her hands.

“No, who cares about them?” Ron then groans and she gives him a look. “Alright that’s really sad,” he says, “But come on! Why would he do this and why now? Four locations, and one of them is _ completely _ random? What are the chances?”

‘Always watch behind a pawn’s back, Ron,’ Uncle Morris used to say, ‘More often than not, there’s another piece at play,’ 

He’s right, Ron realizes as he stares down at the pieces. 

“Well, Dumbledore is gone, the ministry was in shambles, this was the perfect time.” She wildly gestures at Ron’s side. “The white king is gone,”

Ron drops Bellatrix. “Yes, but-” he says. “Dumbledore wasn’t the white king. Harry is. But that’s not the point. He didn’t  _ need  _ to organize three attacks, he didn’t even need to march his death eaters to the ministry… but why did he? He needed something from those places. It’s a queen’s gambit!”

“Ron you know I don’t know chess terminology-”

“He averted people’s attention away from what he really wanted. Everyone is going to think that the attacks were carried out to draw out the Aurors and kill a bunch of children, just because. I was  _ just  _ thinking the same too. But why would he? Do you remember Hagrid… the Philosopher's stone in our first year-.”

She looks like she’s catching on, “Hagrid checked up on the vault but took--” she says, slowly as something dawns on her face. 

Ron nods. “He did. What if Bellatrix did the same? What if  _ he _ did the same thing? Nothing was taken, not even money. So why would she go there? Because he ordered her to go, why would he do that? Because she’s the black queen, the one that holds the most power after the king, and she has something…”

“Something that she took from Gringotts,” Hermione says, her eyes widening. 

“Something that she and you-know-who have in common, something that wouldn't be noticed if missing. He didn't send her to draw out the Aurors, he sent her because he needed that something back,” Ron leans closer to Hermione. 

"And he attacked that orphanage to retrieve something? What could he possibly hide in there?" 

“I don’t know,” Ron rubs his chin. 

"But we do know one thing," Hermione says. "Whatever Bellatrix wanted, she got it. They all must have targeted these places for a reason."

"But we have no idea what for. This is frustrating." Hermione continues, wringing her hands.

“We don’t need to know, now we know what  _ he _ really wanted. We should… we should focus on each location separately. Why attack Hogsmeade when he could have attacked Hogwarts?”

“Because of the wards,” she says slowly. 

“But then how were Harry and Malfoy taken?”

“What are you implying?”

“If Harry is kidnapped from the school, and Voldemort is involved then that means he can get into the premises. If he didn’t,” Ron says, leaning forward excitedly, feeling that maybe, just maybe they were getting somewhere, “Then that means he doesn’t want to. Same as the ministry. Remember that the wards were breached recently."

Hermione frowns. “But the wards are still in place, people saw Harry in the hallways on his way to her office-.”

“There’s someone from the inside, in Hogwarts. There has to be.” his face darkens, and his hand seems to throb in tandem to his thoughts, “And I think I know who,”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Ron,” Hermione says, a little exasperated even as she too, throws a concerned look at his hand, “Just because she’s an annoying toad from the Ministry and has cruel means of punishment it doesn’t mean that she’s a death eater.” 

“Who else is there?”

“Malfoy himself?” Hermione quirks a brow.

“Alright yeah…” Ron mumbles, “That makes sense too-.”

“You just really want Umbridge to be a Death Eater. She works for the ministry. She’s an awful person, but I don’t think she’s a death eater. How would she even kidnap Harry? She’s the headmistress, she runs the school now!”

“It wouldn’t make sense.” Ron sighs. He has a feeling that he’s just missed something vital, Something that was just- right within his grasp but slipped away. 

She's staring at him, with that look she gets when she's trying to solve a difficult puzzle. Ron sort of loves and hates that look at the same time. “I think you’re going about it the wrong way, Ron.” she finally says, then starts picking up the numerous papers around them into a thick bulk.

“How so?”

She looks up at him, “You only have one chess set out… this is clearly a layered problem.”

Layered. That word rings a bell in his head. Layered problems, layered moves… layered chess.

Uncle Morris never lived long enough to teach Ron how to play three-dimensional chess, but this situation clearly calls for it. 

If the universe has just stepped up the game, then Ron needs to step up his.

“You’re a genius.” he breathes and dives under the bed to fetch his other sets. 

Ron can hear the smile in her voice from above as she says, “I know.”

***

They're alone in the common room, have been about two minutes after Hermione's indignant ranting started, the third years scrambled into their dorms right away when they saw her frown, throwing pitying looks over their shoulders at a resigned Ron who has just settled in the worn armchair in front of the fireplace. 

"This is outrageous," she seethes for the tenth time in the last thirty minutes.

"I know," Ron replies, his head resting on his hand, his elbow propped up on the armrest of the chair. His rage has simmered down since the class has ended, it seems as if Hermione is having enough for the both of them, and as a general rule between the trio, only two members are allowed to have a freakout at the same time.

"It's only been four days!" she rages, her hands thrown in the air, "And she wants to start the classes already? I mean, I understand that this is important, our O.W.L years are the most vital years of our lives but still!" 

Ron hums. "I know." 

He wonders if he should get up and fetch a bunch of snacks real quick, but he doesn't have it in him, and Hermione is in no way done. She turns to stare at him, and he nods. He knows all these things, he was thinking the exact same things during her joke of a class.

"I know, 'mione," 

"Ugh!" she fists her hands and turns away from him, her hair frizzy around her face, like a magnificent mane. Ron wants to tangle his fingers in her hair and work out every knot, he already knows that it smells amazing, some sweet flower that he cannot quite name, and it feels soft but frizzy at once. He's thinking about things like that a lot recently. Weird things that make his chest tingle and his face to heat up. 

She carries on, oblivious to Ron's inner turmoil. "I'm not saying the classes should be out indefinitely, but… nighty seven people  _ died,  _ Justin's mom is dead, Hannah's aunt is in the hospital, everyone is terrified, wouldn't that Toad think of this stuff?" 

Ron huffs a breath, stretching his legs out in front of him. "Hermione, you're talking about Umbridge," That seems like a valid point. 

"I know!" she exclaims. "Why is she even around? She was working under Fudge, and he's getting indicted. Why is she working?"

"Because she's from the Ministry," 

She groans. "And with You-know-who showing up at the ministry no one's thinking about Hogwarts anymore." she ruffles her hair. "We need Professor Dumbledore back."

Ron thinks that they don't necessarily need the man himself, as opposed to that woman gone out of this place. As a prefect himself, he's surprisingly protective of the younger students. He cannot even imagine any of those brats writing with that torture device. "Or more importantly, we need Umbridge gone." 

Hermione gives him a look. "We cannot just commit murder, Ron," she says, in spite of him  _ not  _ mentioning murder as an option at all. "Everyone will know it was us," 

Ron gulps down the last of his tea with a forlorn frown. "So… we attend the classes." 

She sighs. "We attend the classes." 

***

"Thomas Adams," 

The man looks disorientated, but somehow awfully frightened at once. He's in his day's old work robes, his hair is a mess, and his eyes sunk in. He, along with two other Aurors were found after the attack, aimlessly wandering around the ministry halls, unaware of the date or their surroundings.

He sits in the interrogation cell now, his hands attached to the tabletop with a linked chain, looking haggard and nauseous. Kingsley somewhat pities the poor sod. 

"Yeah," The man nods to his name, thickly swallowing as he glances into the dark. "Thomas Adams, that's me." 

"Born to Marian Adams née Scotts, and William Adams," 

"Yes," Adams spits out, clinking his chain with a restless groan. He has been held here for three days, he's been fed and watered, but not allowed to rest much out of fear that his mind had been tampered with by a trigger. Sleep could ruin some of their evidence. Kingsley could see how that would frustrate the man. 

"You have been employed by the ministry for…" 

"Six years now. Recruited right out of Hogwarts, I used to work for Baggins in the magical care for exotic creatures. Yes, we've been over this at least a  _ dozen  _ times," 

"Not with me, Mr. Adams." Kingsley mildly replies, flicking through the man's file. It seemed bland enough, almost too bland. His records were absurdly clean, not a single sick day, no promotions until two months ago, not a single vacation leave, it was infuriatingly cleansed. He slams the file shut and leans his chin on the back of his interlocked hands, inspecting the twitching man sitting in front of him. 

"Six years in the ministry," he muses. "Your record is clean, you're a very ambitious young man," 

Adams sneers. "Can we get to the point? I'm really tired, is the Legilimens here yet?" 

"It would really benefit you to comply, Mr. Adams. I understand that you're fatigued and frustrated with the situation, but your case is not to be handled lightly. Are you aware of your charges?" 

Adams squirms, looking down at his slightly trembling hands. "Imperius," he mutters. "I was under the influence of Imperius," there's a slight pause. "I think I was." 

Kingsley leans back in his chair. "You think?" 

"I cannot-" Thomas pauses for a deep inhale. "I cannot remember much. The last thing I remember is waking up on August the tenth, and heading to work. Then...well you know the rest." 

"We don't," the Auror says. "Whose voice was commanding you?" 

Thomas groans, his shoulders tensing as his head drops down, as if unable to handle the weight it's putting on his neck. Kingsley mulls his lips together for a moment before reaching for his wand. He waves it over the table in a slow circular motion, and the table as if suddenly liquefied ripples in the center. 

"Get me a light dose of pepper up potion. Mr. Adams is in desperate need of one," he says and the rippling fades, the table turning solid once more. Someone should be bringing it by now. 

"There has been a slight delay with our specialist," Kingsley explains as someone knocks on the room's door and then gingerly opens the door, letting in a harsh ray of light as they quickly drop the gleaming vial in Kingsley's hand and scramble out, Adams is wincing. 

"There you go, Mr. Adams," Kingsley watches as Thomas downs in the foul-tasting potion in large, desperate gulps. 

"Thank you," Adams says, sighing as the vial clinks down against the table. 

"Now, let's revisit my last question. Whose voice did you hear, while being under the influence? Was it someone you knew?" 

Thomas shrugs, "Not that I can think of, I don't remember much, just… flashes. But his accent."

"What about it?" 

"Really posh," Thomas says, "Sounded really classy, you know, just something about it. Foreign, but not really." 

"Are you sure it was a man?" 

"I'm positive. He was enunciated, his voice was smooth, I don't remember much else." 

"What did he say? The day that you called for me to meet Fudge, was it his voice telling you to do so?" 

Adams shakes his head. "No, that was minister Fudge himself, ordering me to summon you to his office." 

"After you delivered this letter?" Kingsley pushes the unfolded parchment across the table, then slides a second parchment that was fished out of Adams' monthly report on his project. The handwritings perfectly matched. 

Thomas looked disturbed. "I didn't write this," he says, gulping. 

Kingsley flicks a brow. "Your handwriting is a perfect match. You've written this under the influence, sent it to Fudge anonymously, and then were sent after me." 

"I don't remember writing this," 

"But this is your handwriting?" 

"Apparently. But I swear I have no idea what this letter is talking about. I didn't even know that you knew Harry Potter, or were following him or whatever. It's none of my business, I don't even follow the Daily Prophet.” Adams huffs a little, “I could care less about a teenager, sir," 

"Well, it seems that the person behind this was interested. Would you recognize his voice if you heard it again?" 

"I don't know, maybe? He had a very specific accent, as I said." 

"Alright. If you don't remember him telling you to write this letter, word for word, do you remember anything about him telling you to write these?" 

Adams' face falls as a stack of discriminating parchments are pushed across the table. 

It's going to be a long session. 

***

"I know we're not gonna kill her, but I cannot take this anymore! She's insufferable and insufficient, and... And," Hermione flounders around for the perfect word, and Ron is all too happy to supply her. 

"A bitch?"

"Language, Ronald,” she says, although even the reprimand feels half-hearted. 

"Admit it, Mione, even you can't handle reading and memorizing this crap, "

"It's nonsensical! Awful, absolutely and unequivocally awful! There's going to be a war, and this is our defense against the dark arts book? There's not a single spell in this book that tells us how to actually defend ourselves! What if we were in Hogsmeade that day? It would have been catastrophic!"

"I know.” Ron sighs, and then slams the book in front of him shut, pushing it away with a disgusted look, “It's bloody awful. I just wish that we weren't so helpless. With the toad still as headmistress, there's not much we can do without there being a new degree or something."

"We need to be able to defend ourselves," Hermione scowls. 

"Yes, obviously. This cannot go on, but short of getting rid of her, I'm not seeing any solutions. We already wrote to the Order, we already spoke with McGonagall-"

"Professor McGonagall, Ronald," she interrupts again. 

"Yes, her. There's nothing they can do, so…"

"So, we just have to do something about it ourselves."

"Revolt?" he asks, only half-joking. 

"Of course not! We need to… if she's not going to teach us how to defend ourselves…” she looks around the common room suspiciously, as if waiting for Umbridge to pop out of nowhere. Perhaps under the couch. Pity they don’t have a tank in here. 

Ron stands up, and Hermione looks at him for a moment before she too puts down her quill, and closes the inkpot. Ron is surprised when she doesn’t insist on putting everything away, neatly and staying organized and simply says, “I don’t think I can look at those words any longer, Ron. Let’s go.”

Grinning a little goofily, they both make their way out of the Gryffindor tower. It’s not quite curfew yet, but the halls are still deserted. Probably because no one wants to be caught out after curfew by that bitch. Although the teachers have been more than lenient lately. 

After walking down a few corridors, Hermione speaks again, low and determined, “What to do, what to do… hmm. Pretty limited options, bleak outlook, unless, unless we bend the rules."

"Do it. Hermione Granger? Break the damn rules."

"We'll teach ourselves! We could start a club!" 

"A secret club?” he pauses, “Who's gonna teach us?" 

"We are going to teach them, Ron,” she says, casting her eyes back towards a portrait at the end of the hall, before she turns back to him. She’s gripping his arms and speaking rapidly, “I'm good at charms, you're good at offensive spells now that your wand is actually your own. I can make a trip to the library, we can teach each other and then to the others!"

Ron blinks, "That is… actually brilliant. Hermione, you're brilliant." 

Hermione looks taken aback for a moment, and then goes pink, releasing his arms, "Oh, Ron, it was just an idea…"

"No,” Ron says firmly, feeling something bubbling up in him as he grabs her shoulders back, “Don't undersell it, you're brilliant Hermione Granger." He grins, and then, just because they’re alone, and he can, and because maybe they might finally be able to do something about their Toad problem, all because of the girl standing before him, Ron leans forward and plants a kiss on her lips before pulling back. 

"Oh!" She’s completely red now, and if his heating ears are any indication, he is too. There is a slightly dazed smile on her face. 

"I hope that smile is because of me," he says, and his voice most definitely does not come out high. 

"That was… really nice. Really nice.” She blinks and refocuses back on his face, then her eyes flicker down to his lips and back again, “Can we do it again?"

They do. 

When they pull apart, they’re both flushed and slightly breathless. Hermione is beaming.

"This is so exhilarating!" She bounces on her heels, and hugs him tight, her arms are surprisingly strong, "Breaking the rules!"

"Err… I don't think us kissing was ever illegal…” He pauses at her expression, “Oh you meant the club."

"Yes, Ronald.” Her eyes crinkle, “But for the record, you're a great kisser."

***

"Zabini?" Blaise had been wondering how long it would take the Granger girl to notice that he’d been following her since she entered the library that afternoon. He maintains an aloof expression, his hands in his jeans pockets, as he comes directly into her line of sight.

"What a coincidence, Granger," he drawls.

"You were following me," her eyes narrow. 

"Oh well,” he shrugs, “I suppose we might as well talk now. There's a lot to discuss."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’ve uploaded a companion piece to this chapter in _"i'll trade you a memory" _, a little something from Hermione’s perspective. Make sure to check it out!__


	24. Spilling Guilt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings for; graphic imagery and disturbing themes, explicit language, panic attacks, drowning, graphic implied/referenced torture, descriptions of illness and injury, vomiting. 
> 
> Something to spice up your holidays, what better than a fresh dose of heavy angst? Merry Christmas!
> 
> Next update on 8th January, Friday.

_ “So full of artless jealousy is guilt, _

_ It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.” _

_ ― William Shakespeare _

… 

Harry’s mind is silent. Utterly silent and that terrifies him.

He used to be a companion to silence. Those nights in his cupboard, where everyone had already gone to sleep, but his stomach aches were keeping him awake. The nights where the sound of the plumbing behind his cupboard sent him into a voiceless panic in the pitch dark, building on an irrational childish fear of monsters, when the real ones were sleeping above his head, without a single worry in the world. 

This silence was different. In fact, it could not be described as silence at all, as opposed to the lack of sound. Silence is never silent, not really. Harry never used to know the difference, but he is acutely aware of it now. 

Silence is tamed. Less dark. Nothing gazes back at you in silence, but from the pitch dark, everything has eyes and sharpened teeth. 

The wind blows against his face, but it has no sound, the grass rustles under his feet, he feels his bare toes bend the needle-like structures, and it still has no sound. He cannot even hear the sound of his own breathing, but if he could, he’s sure that it would be the only thing filling his head.

He’s back in the maze. 

He cannot look back, he cannot turn his head, it’s as if he’s being held hostage by his own mind. The only thing Harry can do is walk forward, to the shining trophy. 

He counts each step, his eyes seize the tall shrubs around him, catching the small tendril-like thorns that litter the ground, a little away from the trophy. 

Harry knows what happens if he touches the trophy, he can feel it in the sinking in his stomach, in his shaking hands, and subdued thoughts. But he cannot bear the silence anymore. 

His mind had never been this quiet before. 

He's trapped, and the only way out is the portkey. Ten steps and he's standing right in front of it, gingerly he reaches out, only hesitating for a moment before his fingers close around the handle. 

The familiar pull in his navel is unsettlingly absent. Something shifts in the corner of his eyes, Harry's eyes whip to the silent thorns, they're slithering toward him with lightning speed, soundlessly lashing toward his feet. 

Harry feels his mouth open, knows that he needs to cry out, run, do something, but he's paralysed. He can only watch as the brambles wrap around his ankles, yanking him away from the trophy and to the dark hedges. Harry's head hits the ground with a sickening lack of noise. The pain is blinding though. 

They edge him closer to the hedge, and Harry is helpless. It's too silent, everything is too still. His feet are bloodied and scarred, and the small sharp thorns dig into the wounds, rupturing them in the sharp lashing motions of pulling his body forward. 

Then he's in the hedge and he cannot breathe. 

His eyes are open but they cannot see, or discern shapes, it's too dark and murky. He feels as if he's under water. Then suddenly he  _ is _ .

The thorns wrapped around his ankles are now shackles, and he's suspended in water, holding his breath, feeling his lungs burn with the effort. Feels the oxygen escaping his mouth, still hears nothing. Not even the pounding of his heart that he thinks he should be hearing. 

Harry cannot do it, he cannot handle the shackles, and the lack of air. He cannot handle being alone under water, in the dark with nothing else with him. No one else here to watch him die, to watch him struggle and sob and cry soundlessly against the rush of pure undulating fear that's washing over him. 

He opens his mouth, lets the murky, freezing liquid in, and they burn. Burn worse than flames. 

Then he's on his back, sputtering and thrashing under two manic eyes. 

She caresses his face, her touch fanning the icy shards in his skin. Her wand is pointed to his temple. She's smiling. 

Harry tries yelling, but she makes a face at him, mock pity apparent in her pouting lips. He sees her lips form the words, and then agony takes over again. 

Harry doesn't care about the pain, he doesn't care that his entire body is ablaze. He wants to  _ scream.  _ He needs an outlet for the pain. He cannot handle it otherwise. He cannot handle her silent cackle, and his heaving chest, and the soundless impact of his head against the cell's floor. 

'Please, please,' Harry begs his mind. ' Let me go. Stop it, please.'

He expects this to go on forever, the silent agony, but it doesn't. It's cut off as abruptly as his drowning. He's still in the cell, but she's not there anymore. Harry has never been more relieved in his life. 

The first thing he can hear is the sound of his own breathing. 

His hands wriggle, his fingers trembling on the ground as they pat around, looking for something, anything. He's not disappointed when he touches skin. 

It's another hand, and Harry readily closes his fingers around the lax limb, his breath steadies, gradually, as he tries to compose his mind into its semblance of sanity. 

He's not alone. 

It takes him forever, but finally, Harry starts to sit up, ignoring his blurry vision as he squeezes the hand in his. It must have been Draco's. It should have been Draco's but it's not. 

It's Cedric. 

Harry tries scrambling away, wrenching his hand out of Cedric's hold but it's impossible. Cedric is dead, his face is decomposed, but his eyes, Harry knows those eyes. 

Cedric is so dead that he doesn't have a jaw anymore, it depicts a clear image of attrition in his head because Harry’s dreams had never shown him this version of the boy, decomposed, and mangled and wracked with maggots. 

Harry wants to retch but he cannot because as he looks around he notes that  _ they're not alone.  _

Mom is there. Leaned against the wall. Dad is propped up next to her, their eyes are wide, glazed, and terrified as they stare right into Harry’s eyes. Harry cannot look away. They look like they've been dead much longer than Cedric has. 

Harry cannot even allow his mind to register the missing bits of their bodies as he tears his eyes away to the other corner of the cell. Narcissa Malfoy, looking anything but graceful in her tattered robes. She's there too. Her eyes are not as glazed, but she's also staring at Harry. 

Everyone is staring at him. In death, and in a silence that only comes with death. 

He looks back at Cedric, his fingers graze against the bony knuckles, there's something crawling on the underside of his wrist, but Harry doesn't dare to look. 

"Do you see?" come the surprising words, breathed against his ear, rustling his hair. Harry gasps, this time he hears the sharp intake of air with vivid clarity. 

He turns his head around, and Lucius Malfoy's eyes burn into his. They're so close, and they have blue flecks swirling amongst the grey. Just like Draco's eyes. Unlike Draco's, Lucius' looks cold and unforgiving. 

"Do you see?" the man asks once more, his hair is matted with a crusted red. He takes Harry's other hand in his. 

"See what?" Harry asks, his voice cracked and barely audible. He's not used to the umbrage of sounds that fill the cell. The sound of his breathing, and the gravel under his body, and wriggling creatures that he logically shouldn't be hearing crawling onto his hand. 

Malfoy gestures around the cell. "They're imprisoned," he says and holds his right hand by the wrist, "You did it. "

"No, I didn't." Tears stream down his face. Harry wants to go, he wants to  _ leave.  _

"Yes you did," Lucius brandishes a small penknife, adorned silver, but rusting on the edges. It's not rust though, Harry realises as the man brings the gleaming knife closer to his face. It's dried blood. 

"I'm sorry," he tells Draco's father. He means it, he means every word that comes out of his mouth. He's sorry for killing them. He's sorry for being born. 

"You killed my wife." The knife is on his wrist, not quite pushing down, but merely grazing his skin. Harry shakes his head, he cannot stop the flood of tears anymore. 

"I didn't," he glances at Narcissa's body once more, and she's staring at them both, Harry cries. "I didn't." 

"You killed Cedric, you stole my son. You disfigured him." 

The knife finally pushes down, and the sound is disgusting in its hyper intensity. He can hear his skin being shredded under the blade, he can feel the pain. It hurts so much. 

"I'm sorry! I didn't mean to! I swear I didn't mean to. Stop! Stop, please. " Harry had never begged anyone like this before. Not Voldemort in the graveyard, and not Bella when she had him trapped in here for days. But this pain is agonising. He cannot breathe. 

"You killed me." The blade viciously drags across his wrist, and Harry has to look away, he's going to sever his hand from the wrist. Harry knows and that knowledge piles on the pain. 

"You didn't give in, " Lucius sounds so methodical and calm, even as his face is spattered with Harry's blood, "You didn't die. So others had to die for you," 

"No," Harry sobs.

"Don't fight it, Harry," Cedric says, squeezing his hand, "It won't hurt when he's finished. It'll all be okay." 

The knife hits something blunt. Harry's bone. And the pain just doesn't register anymore. He's not looking at it, but the pain isn't changing. The knife just keeps sawing away. Back and forth. 

Cedric squeezes his hand again, "It's going to be okay." 

***

Something hits Draco on the cheek. 

It takes everything he has in him not to scream and scramble off the bed. His eyes snap open and he stares at the ceiling, his heart is thundering somewhere in his throat. 

He doesn’t know how long he breathes for, trying to process the fact that Fenrir isn’t here, and that he isn’t about to be murdered, but it doesn't feel more than a minute to him. 

And then he hears the whimper, right beside him. The sound makes him flinch. He's always slower when groggy. 

His senses seem to be coming back to him sluggishly. It takes him over twenty seconds to blink the confusion away, an embarrassingly long time, but at least he knows that it was Harry who’d hit him accidentally with his arm.

He seems to be having a nightmare. 

Draco frowns. 

Harry is still, for the most part. He  _ is  _ whimpering, but with the way his face is scrunching up, mouth twisting, Draco would have expected more thrashing to be involved--other than the slapping arm-- as it usually is with Harry. 

Yet, the other boy lies, incredibly still and also as if he's fighting for his life. It’s disconcerting to watch someone being trapped in their own body. 

“Harry?” Draco whispers, “Harry!” 

He nervously swallows, detecting the tears rapidly leaking out of Harry’s eyes, Draco props himself up on his elbows, creeps closer to Harry in the cramped bed, and taps Harry's cheek. 

“Harry, wake up.” 

Harry starts sobbing. 

The first tendrils of panic grip his stomach. 

He sits up and leans over a little, “Harry! Wake up! It’s just a nightmare!” 

Beneath the heap of blankets, is Harry's other hand, the only part of him that's struggling. Draco pats the blankets and then frowns when it feels wet. With narrowed eyes, he properly sits up and throws the blanket off Harry's body. 

Harry’s injured hand is fisted on the bedsheet, in a pool of its own blood. A lot of it. 

“Fuck,” Draco murmurs, reaching out a hand to slowly clasp Harry’s shoulder and give him a small shake. This is not good. Not good at all. Draco had not been expecting this. 

Severus said it was under control before he left. He explicitly said the words 'Stable if not agitated.' 

This doesn't look stable.

Harry hadn't worked with that hand even once since his godfather's departure. 

The bandages on the boy's hand are so soaked that they couldn't be discerned from his skin. 

Draco touches him and Harry jolts, crying out, terrified, but  _ still doesn’t wake _ . 

His heart’s thundering in his ears, and he can barely hear his own thoughts over it.

The bleeding can not be good for Harry, according to Severus, his blood is already too thin, and they don’t have enough blood replenishers left, and Harry isn’t unclenching his hand, which is probably aiding the blood flow quite a bit. 

He has no way to contact Severus. No literal way. No owl, no floo, he is  _ not  _ confident in his ability to apparate in this state. 

Fuck.  _ Fuck. _

The moment Draco touches his hand, Harry starts his weird thrashing in earnest, as if he's shackled down and put under the torture curse. Flailing but unable to move. Draco knows what that looks like too well.

Draco scoots even closer to Harry and bites onto the inside of his cheek, hard, to stimulate his thinking. 

What if he does something to it and it gets worse?

Ignoring the damp sheets beneath them, he grips one of Harry’s shoulders in one hand and pats his cheek with another. 

“Harry, it’s just a dream, you gotta wake up.” 

He had no fucking idea if it's gonna work. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if it makes it worse. 

Harry murmurs, delirious and shaking his head. And with a sinking feeling, Draco wonders if it actually is a dream or one of those visions. Maybe even a feverish delusion, or even worse, the poison manifesting into something worse. 

His panic addled brain is deducing way too fast for Draco to settle on one simple thought.

Harry's cheek feels warm to touch. Fever? Just Harry? The blankets? Harry is always a little too warm to begin with, but Draco doesn't know shit about medicine. 

And if it's a vision? A tiny voice asks in his head. What if the dark lord is in his mind right now, inducing the bleeding, and the fever and the thrashing? Should Draco even be doing this? 

Draco has only known about the visions for a short amount of time. He has no idea how they work, he has no idea what he should be doing now. 

He should wake Potter. 

Mouth dry as the Sahara, Draco slaps Harry a little more harshly. Whatever he’s dreaming of is certainly worse than a couple of rough pats on the cheeks, so he doesn't really feel guilty for slapping him again. 

It doesn't work, and now Harry's cheek is red. 

Draco panics harder, shaking his shoulders more harshly, he all but yells, “Harry, wake UP!” 

And Harry does.

No preparation or delay. He's awake all at once. With a loud gasp, his eyes fly open, filled with such unbridled terror that Draco rears back. Harry lets out a choked gasp and scuttles back a little, hitting his head on the headboard in his haste. Draco winces, but Harry doesn’t even seem to notice.

“Harry?" Draco says, softy. 

He shakes his head violently, murmuring something too low for Draco to hear. The pool of blood is getting bigger. Staring upwards as if staring at a manic corpse suspended from the ceiling. He's as white as chalk.

“Harry, are you--” Draco cuts himself off, of course, he’s not okay, “Harry, you’re bleeding.” 

Harry blinks.

Draco had backed away a little when Harry had woken up, but he closes the distance again now. He’s reluctant to touch him again, but softly says, “You’re hurt.” 

Harry pulls himself up into a sitting position, back pressed against the headboard, and stares at his bleeding hand with a spasming expression, as if unsure whether to be fascinated or horrified. He’s crying. 

Draco doesn't dare breathe. 

Harry shakes his head again, another sob bubbles out of him but it doesn't sound right, “I’m sorry,” he says.

Draco’s lips part.  _ What. _

“I didn’t- I didn’t mean to, I swear I didn’t.” Harry’s voice is hoarse and cracking, his breathing ragged. His sobs are getting worse. It sounds like he can’t breathe.

Draco wrings his hands, biting his lips. 

Harry has wrapped his arms around his knees, bloodied and all, compressed into as small a space as he could manage, face buried in between them. Draco doesn’t know what to do. And there’s so much blood. On the bedsheets, on Harry's pyjamas, his sleeves, his arms. 

It looks like Harry cannot breathe and now Draco isn't faring much better either. This is all new to him, this… handling other people. Being there in their emotional turmoil, well, if this counted as one. 

He has no idea what to do, or more importantly, what Harry needed him to do. What was obvious though, was that he should do  _ something _ . 

He scoots closer to Harry, their sides press together, and he hears Harry’s breath catch. 

“No, no, no, stay ‘way,” Harry mumbles wetly, “I kill everyone. Stay ‘way Draco.” 

He doesn't know where to begin dismantling that. Nightmare, dream, or vision or whatever… must have had to do with killing people. 

Or killing Draco.

This cannot be healthy--obviously--, carrying this much guilt, and fear. Draco would have thought getting captured and tortured half to death would have absolved him of the notion that any of this was his fault. But it looks like this ran deeper than Draco had originally thought. 

“No, Harry.” Draco slowly wraps one arm around Harry’s shaking shoulders. 

He is just going to bullshit his way through this, and hope that he's doing it right. He has never  _ cuddled  _ anyone like this in his entire life.

“It’s not your fault. It’s You-Know-Who that kills them all, not you." He huffs into the boy's hair. "You’ve got the worst hero complex I’ve ever seen, you could never hurt someone.” 

“I do!” Harry wails, turning around and burying his face between Draco’s neck and good shoulder. Draco stiffens, almost pulls away for a moment before he forces himself to relax. Nothing is hurting, so yeah, he can handle this. 

“No, you don’t,” Draco says firmly, awkwardly patting Harry’s hair with one hand at an odd angle because of the way his body is positioned. It's drenched in sweat. Draco wrinkles his nose but doesn't pull away. He can do this much for Harry. 

“Your mother, and- and father, and C-C-Cedric, everyone, how is it not my fault?” Harry sniffs loudly, before coughing into Draco’s shirt. Draco winces, before Harry’s words register. 

“How is it your fault?” He asks incredulously. “You weren’t the one holding the wand." 

Just a while back, Draco was telling him the opposite. In that godforsaken bathroom. He accused Potter of killing Diggory and killing his parents. The memory is so hazy, that he's not even sure if it happened.

Harry stiffens, but Draco carries on, "You weren’t the one to speak the incantation, you weren’t the one to fire the spell, hell, you weren’t even the one to push them in the direction of the spell," he feels more numb after each word.

How is it that only now he's realizing such a simple fact?

"Nor were you the one to tell anyone to kill them  _ or _ the one who had any intentions to have them killed. There,” Draco says, with a small almost satisfied air, “I think I covered all bases, that makes it, most decidedly,  _ not _ your fault." 

Not his fault. 

An apology is on the tip of Draco's tongue, so urgent that he can almost taste it. 

Harry’s trembling is almost as bad as it used to be in the cell directly after one of Bella’s torture sessions. That can’t be good. After a few days of rest and a mostly stress-free environment, the tremors had eased a little. Now they’d come back threefold. It feels like Harry’s having a seizure. 

"Harry," Draco says. 

He's shaking his head, "I didn't mean to." 

Draco wants this to be over already, he has no idea what to do, or how to do it, and Harry's hand is  _ still  _ leaking blood all over the two of them, "Alright. Alright; I know. You didn't mean to," 

Harry grips his hand for less than a second before letting go. He coughs a few more times, still dangerously pale. 

Why did Severus leave them here by themselves? He has no idea how to deal with this. 

He runs his fingers through Harry’s hair and just keeps hoping that it's providing at least some amount of relief. 

Harry keeps coughing wetly, painfully, his other hand clenching the sheets. 

"You need some water."

Harry shakes his head, Draco needs to take care of the bleeding. The bleeding and the coughing and the fever. There is so much.

Shifting them both to wrangle the sheets from their tangled legs, Draco tightens his hold around Harry's shoulder. 

"I don't feel good," Harry says. "I think I'm gonna-" there's no time to react, Harry's already retching on the covers and Draco instinctively scrambles away, holding Harry as it happens.

The other boy looks miserable. 

"I'm sorry-" this time, he has enough time to turn away and Draco pointedly pushes the disgust to the furthest corner of his mind.

Harry has never been this sick after a nightmare before. Draco needs to get him out of the bed and into the bathroom as soon as possible. Both of them. 

"Hey. Hey, it's okay," he doesn't know how much rubbing one's back helps, he's never had anyone doing that for him before. Usually, because he was never sick enough to garner this much attention. 

He grabs his mother's wand and quickly cleans his own clothes before doing the same for Harry. "Let's go, come on."

Harry doesn't cooperate at first, but Draco doesn't yield. The wound has opened yet again, and Draco has no idea why. Severus told them that it was stable enough to be left alone, it looked stable enough before his godfather had wrapped it up a few days ago. Draco has no idea what prompted this.

Aside from this fact circulating in his mind, the only other thought is the word 'Crap', playing in a loop.

They stumble to the bathroom in total darkness, with Harry heavily leaning on Draco with closed eyes. 

Draco is not sure how he feels about the close proximity. He actually doesn't have much time to think about it. All he has time and space for is getting the other boy to the bathroom before another accident, and the word 'Crap'.

He turns the lights on, and Harry crashes in front of the toilet on his knees. Draco quickly takes action, opens the water tap, opens the cupboard for potions and bandages. 

"Cold water helps nausea," he tells a disgruntled Harry. "Come on, wash your face."

He holds Harry's bleeding hand under the cold water, cursing Severus with every inhale, and praying that the bleeding stops with every exhale. 

Severus needs to whip up the antidote. Soon. He's due for a visit tomorrow, that's it. They just have to hold on for a few hours. 

"Draco." 

"Don't talk now," Draco mutters, pushing the wet flannel to Harry's forehead. His mind is racing, checking off one potion after the other, keeping an eye on the rapid bleeding, cursing his godfather and Umbridge with every cuss word under the sky. Crap. Crap. Crap.

"I cannot give you any stomach soothing potions," he says, eying the rows of stomach soothers in the cupboard. That is the frustrating bit out of all of this. They have the supplies and the potions, only it turns out that Harry cannot have any. 

Harry is silent but still looks disoriented. Draco actually wants to hit himself for not explaining it to the other boy sooner. "It's the poison, Harry, alright?"

The bleeding, the vomiting and the nightmare. It makes sense, Draco thinks. Severus has to be here by tomorrow. The man knows these things better than anyone. He designed the poison himself. 

"I'm-"

"Don't talk," Draco takes the wet flannel away from Harry's forehead and presses it to his hand instead, the white cloth immediately turns pink. 

"Your hand," Draco points out. "It's the poison. Don't worry, Severus will be here with the antidote soon. None of these things is your fault, alright? When the bleeding stops, you have to tell me how to make tea with mint."

"Mint?" Harry mutters. 

"Mint is the main ingredient in stomach soothing potion. It helps with nausea," he explains.

"Oh," Harry still looks dazed and his eyes are bloodshot. It could either be the exhaustion or another side effect of the poison. Draco isn't sure because they don't cover advanced dark poisons made by potion masters in class. It's not even part of the Hogwarts curriculum. Draco inwardly curses some more.

Crap.

"We'll stop the bleeding," Draco says, mostly to himself. "Then we'll get you on the couch, I'll take care of the sheets and then we wait for Severus."

Harry flushes in shame, "I can clean," 

"You cannot stand," Draco says, helping Harry sit on the edge of the toilet.

He groans, "Sorry."

Draco closes his eyes and wets the flannel once more. "You apologise one more time," he says, "And I'm feeding you raw leaves, Potter. Don't apologise." He presses the cold compress against the oozing wound. The blood is dark but thin, blood poisoning, obviously. He catches Harry's gaze. "It's not your fault," he repeats. "Curse Umbridge."

"Bloated Toad," Harry says after a moment. 

Draco snorts. "That's right. Keep going." 

"Flamingo." 

Draco pauses, "What?" 

Harry shrugs. His eyes keep drooping but his shoulders are impossibly tense. "They're pink."

Draco notes with relief that the bleeding has slowed down. "They're not fat," he points out, wiping Harry's hand. He might as well bandage it now. 

Harry snorts, "Fat flamingos." 

Draco smirks, "Nice."

They're silent for a beat.

"Am I dying?" Harry's voice trembles. 

Draco’s face hardens. "No," he firmly says, "I won't let you. It's just poison. Severus will be here soon," he says, and conjures up a roll of gauze, setting it on the floor beside them. Harry’s hand has mostly stopped bleeding. Draco wipes at Harry’s hand again and they’re quiet for one whole minute before Harry speaks again. 

"Your dad is mad at me." 

Draco freezes, looking at Harry, startled, "My… father?"

Harry made an affirmative noise in his throat, "Really mad."

Delirium. Crap. That's not good, Draco bites his already raw lip. He closes the tap and picks up the gauze. He’s not sure if dittany or the murtlap would help or make things worse. 

Crap, and fuck and all the unpleasant words under the sky. 

"He's not mad anymore," Draco promises him after a while as he wraps the wound. Harry doesn’t reply, but his fingers curl a little in Draco’s hand. When the wrapping is complete, he still finds himself holding Harry’s hand.

He’s staring at the hand but he knows that Harry is staring at him, the same way he stares at things he’s fascinated by, or the things that Draco has thus noticed. It makes something dance in his chest. 

"Come on,” he says, clearing his throat. “Let's get you settled on the couch," Draco helps him up, dismayed to see that the shaking hasn’t eased even a tiny bit. 

"Are you going to leave me?" Harry’s voice is blank, and Draco frowns. 

"No. Don't be stupid." 

"You should leave. Or you're the stupid one." 

Draco doesn't answer. 

***

He's not coming. He's not coming, and no, he's still not coming. 

Draco is driving himself insane. 

He's been camping out in the living room all night, and well into the morning, he's had brewed over ten kettles of mint tea with honey he found in the pantry, he's changed Harry's bandages five times in the last five hours, they've made over six trips to the bathroom and Severus is  _ still not here.  _

If only Draco had some ingredients… well, he wouldn't know what to do with them, he's never worked with this particular branch of poison before, much less one that belongs to his godfather. Severus's work is flawless, always has been, and low dosages given over the course of two, almost three months is no joke. 

Damn Umbridge. Fucking death eater scum.

"Draco?" Harry’s small voice jolts him out of his worry-induced reverie, and Draco whirls on to Harry, who’s trying to get off of the couch, struggling from under the layers of blankets. 

"Hmm?" Draco fusses around, shushing him when he tries to bat his hands away. 

"Do you want food?" 

Draco frowns, he’s given Harry a lot of tea, but admittedly, nothing to eat, "Are you hungry?" 

"Not me,” Harry coughs, “I meant you."

"Me?" Draco asks, his eyebrows shooting up. 

"Yes." Harry is still trying to take the covers off him.

"No, I don't-” Draco starts, before cutting himself off, “It doesn't matter. I'm fine. We're fine. Just tell me when  _ you're  _ hungry."

"You cannot cook," Draco wants to feel a little bit relieved at the slight quirking of Harry's lips, but Harry’s face is still way too ashen, lips too dry and cracked, and eyes too sunken for his comfort.

"Don't worry about it. Severus will be here soon," it’s both a reassurance to himself and Harry. 

"I can make something quick,” Harry mutters. Draco scowls when he half sits up, his face going a nasty shade of green until Draco plants a hand on his chest and pushes him back down. Harry, naturally, protests, “You cannot even make eggs." 

"I can figure it out," Draco rolls his eyes, "Just sleep, you're wasting energy by talking. Do you want another cup?" 

"God, no more tea," Harry groans.

"Potter." 

Harry raises his eyebrows at him. "You sound just like him," 

Draco sighs, "Who?"

"Your godfather," Harry replies as if it's obvious. It's not, or maybe it is and Draco is too wired up to notice right now.

"He's your godfather? God, Snape is your godfather,” Harry is babbling, Draco thinks. Is that a bad thing? At least he’s speaking fluidly? Draco doesn’t know. “I mean, as godfathers go, he wouldn't be…" He trails off.

"Harry?" Draco asks when Harry doesn’t speak for a few moments. 

"I forgot what I was going to say," he mumbles. That is definitely not a good sign.

Crap. 

"Alright,” he says, “Let's not…"

"My godfather is an escaped convict," Potter cuts in, "Yours is a spy," Harry snorts.

"We have lousy luck." 

"Lousy, so so lousy. My stomach feels weird," he says, without missing a beat.

"Weird, as in nausea?" Draco asks, quickly getting up and pulling the bucket closer. 

"No.” Harry says, and then, after a beat, “I don't know, I don't like it. And my stupid hands won't stop shaking, and my legs hurt, I want to shower, but I cannot get up. Lousy luck. Ugh," Harry keeps clenching and unclenching his hands. 

Draco takes the right one in his hand and winces when he notices that he’s reopened his cuts. Again. “Harry.”

“What?”

Draco swallows then shakes his head, "Nothing. I’m going to change your bandages.”

Outside the window, the sun has just started to rise above the sea, and the crashing of the waves do little to soothe his nerves as Draco wraps new bandages around Harry’s hand, which hadn’t stopped bleeding this time at all. He is too afraid to even apply dittany anymore. 

“I want to go outside,” Harry says, staring down at his freshly wrapped hand. 

Draco looks up, “Well, um,” he’s pretty sure Harry will just topple over if he tries to stand, but just saying no feels too cruel. “We can go tomorrow, I am too tired now…?”

He winces at how it comes out more as a question, but Harry just nods with a pout. The expression is so out of place on his face that Draco blinks, but Harry’s eyes have started drooping. The shakes have lessened a little, but they’re still a lot worse than they’d been the day before. 

Severus. Severus  _ has  _ to come soon.

Draco should still try and make something to eat for them. But Harry was right, he really doesn’t know how to cook. Although it couldn’t be too hard, he’s seen Harry do it many times by now. 

How hard could it possibly be?

***

Turns out, it can be really fucking hard. 

Does raw egg white have to be so damn runny? It’s just not wiping off the counter. Harry rarely ever uses magic while cooking. But Draco had to give in and use his wand to clear up the three ruined eggs he'd cracked on the counter. 

He stands staring at the remaining three eggs in trepidation, wondering if he should try again and whether they would stay in the bowl or not. Eggs are so  _ delicate _ . 

Cracking them against the bowl edge, he turns it to see if it broke. It hasn’t. 

Delicate. Delicate but apparently not fucking fragile enough to crack on the bowl.

He has to crack it five more times before it actually cracks down the middle.

About twenty minutes later, he wonders if maybe he should have stuck to biscuits and some of that frozen sludge still in their freezer. 

And learnt some advanced healing spells while at it. He dabs some dittany at his own right hand, his palm stings furiously as he grits his teeth, and his eyes are watering. He wraps his hand in a bandage and makes his way back to the living room, the bathroom door swings shut behind him.

If he never has to see a bandage again in his lifetime, it would be too soon. 

He takes a small bowl of ice cream and spoon to Harry, because he seems to like it for some reason, and sits down next to him on the rug. Draco purses his lips, wondering if maybe he should let the other boy sleep, or if sustenance was more important. 

But the choice is made when Harry starts whimpering in his sleep, brows furrowing and eyes rapidly moving beneath lids. Draco quickly sets the bowl down and moves to a kneeling position beside him. He doesn't dare touch Harry yet, “Harry.”

He stills, but doesn’t open his eyes. Draco reaches out carefully, and keeps a hand on his shoulder, shaking him carefully, “It’s me, Draco. You’re in Shell Cottage. Wake up.”

Harry’s face scrunches up, and for a split second Draco is about ninety-nine percent sure that Harry is going to let out a scream, but then his eyes flutter open, “’Raco?”

“Yeah, it’s me.” Harry feels too warm, and Draco tries not to be too concerned about it. It’s not like he can give him a fever-reducing potion for it, “I bought you something to eat.”

Harry blinks at him, a little startled, and Draco would have felt offended if he had managed to cook something… but the ice cream in his hands speaks for itself. 

“You… what?”

“I thought you liked ice cream.”

Harry’s face clears as he peers into the bowl, “Oh.”

Draco helps Harry sit up. Harry’s body is shaking too badly to even hold himself up. Crap.

Draco hands Harry the spoon but holds the bowl in his hands. Harry doesn’t start eating for one full minute, and Draco waits, staring at Harry stare at the spoon shake in his tremulous grasp, before it clatters to the floor with a frustrated sound from Harry.

“Now I can’t even hold a stupid spoon! How am I supposed to cook? Forget Voldemort, we are both going to starve to death,” Harry cries out, his eyes welling with tears. Draco resists the urge to flinch at the Dark Lord’s name and quickly picks up the spoon. 

“Hey, hey, Harry, it’s alright, Severus will be here soon," Draco fucking hopes so, "You’ll be fine.”

This wasn't the right thing to say, apparently.

“How can you say that?" Harry snaps, " _ How _ ? You are stuck here with me, your parents are dead, my relatives are dead, Cedric is  _ dead _ , dead, dead,  _ dead _ , and I can’t hold a stupid fucking spoon.”

Draco  _ does  _ flinch then. 

He could keep telling himself that Harry is just as stressed out as him, a lot more stressed out than him, in pain, and probably delirious. Probably hungry, but it doesn't take away from the truthfulness of his words. It seems as if everyone around them is dropping dead like flies. 

Draco has no family. Not one that matters anymore. He has no manor. Not a single coin to his name. 

There's silence, and then he stands up and bumps at Harry with his hips, gesturing at him to scoot over. 

“Harry, I know," he says. He means it. 

The boy looks at him with teary, red-rimmed eyes, his hands raised up to chest level and trembling violently.

“C’mon,” Draco says, “I’ll feed you.”

Harry’s jaw slacks for a second, scowl clearing in surprise, “What?”

“I’ll feed you,” Draco says, trying not to think too much about it, “You clearly need to eat, you can’t go without, and since you can’t yourself, I will. That’s just… logical. That’s common sense, Potter. Even Gryffindors are supposed to have it.”

“You’ll feed me.” Harry deadpans.

“That’s what I said,” Draco says as he scoops up a spoon full, about to take it to Harry’s mouth.

“I am not a child,” Harry grumbles.

“Did I say that?”

“Nor an invalid.”

“You are sick. Also, you made this ice cream, so I think that makes us even.” With that, Draco shoves the spoon past Harry’s lips before he can protest more. He is a really scrawny kid. For someone who knows how to cook like him, that shouldn’t be possible.

Harry manages to eat a total of four spoonfuls before he starts looking greenish again and Draco has to take the bowl away, and somehow, he doesn’t think it’s because he doesn’t like the ice cream.

He's getting worse. 

And Severus still isn't here. 

***

The first thing Draco hears when he wakes up is screaming, and for one moment he thinks, horribly, terribly, with a jolt of debilitating terror, that he is back in Malfoy Manor, in the cells, and that Bellatrix is torturing Harry.

The next thing he is aware of is the crick in his neck, and the ache in his back. As soon as he tries to get up from the floor, his mouth twists in a grimace of pain and he almost crumples again.

His eyes shoot around trying to figure out the source of the screaming and land on Harry, who’s thrashing on the couch, flailing and screaming. His cuts, to no one’s surprise, have split open  _ again _ , and his bandages are stained red.

Draco shoots up and quickly pins down Harry’s hand, careful of his right one, grabbing it at the elbow. There are tears streaming down his face and he’s still screaming. 

He shouldn't have fallen asleep. He's an idiot. He shouldn't have. Merlin's balls.

“Harry, Harry!" Draco keeps repeating frantically, his heart is beating somewhere in his throat as he tries to calm the other boy down. Harry’s legs are still kicking out a little, but since they’re tangled in the covers, Draco isn’t too worried about Harry hurting himself. 

“Harry!” Draco yells when Harry still doesn’t seem to hear him, and the windows have started to rattle dangerously. 

Harry’s eyes snap open and he continues thrashing, trying to throw Draco off of him.

“It’s alright! You’re not there anymore," he pauses in puzzlement, "Wherever you think it is, you’re not there anymore, it’s alright!”

Harry makes a small hiccuping sound, before dissolving into sobs and going limp.

For a moment, Draco can only stare. 

This is a nightmare. And it's on a loop, and it seems as if it's just as bad for him as it is for Harry.

Numbly, he notices that Harry’s temperature has risen in the past few hours. The bandages have soaked through and the blood is now leaking through to the blankets and the couch. 

He won't fall asleep again.

Harry twists a little, and for a second Draco thinks he’s going to start thrashing again until he says, “Sick, going to- to be sic- sick.” 

Draco’s eyes widen and he quickly scrambles to pull the bucket to them and Harry retches. The sound is awful, the angle is awful, and Draco winces as Harry vomits half on the rug and half into the bucket. 

This time it's Draco's fault. 

“I’ll be right back, Harry, okay? Just right back,” Draco says, quickly hopping over to get his wand. He fucking left it in the kitchen.

As soon as he turns back to Harry, Draco’s heart stops. 

Harry is lying limp over the couch, looking like death warmed over. But that’s only half the picture. His mouth is surrounded by a halo of red. 

His own hands shaking now, Draco makes his way slowly over to Harry, gagging just slightly. He's been an empathetic vomiter since childhood. It's a miracle, that he's holding himself together like this. 

He stares, and Draco knows, knows that it’s blood, but he stares for probably a good half a minute before vanishing the mess. 

Harry’s vomiting blood. 

That is  _ not  _ good. That's fucking worse. That is the fucking worst thing that could have happened. Merlin's bloody balls in hell. 

Harry’s moan breaks Draco out of his trance and he quickly darts towards him. His heart is thundering in his chest. Crap.

The only thing that makes him feel useful is propping Harry up to make sure he doesn’t choke on any more vomit that might be coming up. Harry is still crying and Draco’s stomach clenches at the sight. 

He must be feeling so miserable right now.

Draco summons a glass of water and slowly coaxes Harry into drinking three measly sips. Harry coughs wetly when he’s done, his lips speckled with blood. 

Not good. Crap. 

His own eyes prickling with tears, Draco makes Harry lay down, and adjusts the covers more comfortably around Harry.

This is too much for him. Draco can't handle this. He's never been around sick people. He hasn't taken care of a healthy person in his entire life, much less Harry in this state and he is losing his freaking mind. 

He needs Severus. Severus, and his parents, or someone, anyone to come barging in, grab him by the shoulders and tell him 'We'll take it from here. You go rest.'

Draco makes to stand, he should get Harry a change of clothes, maybe a toothbrush and more tea, the boy probably feels disgusting. But before he can get on his feet, Harry’s hand latches onto his wrist and he rasps, “Don’t,” he whispers, “Please, I- I know I bring-- bring death with me, but please don’t leave,” Harry’s face crumples a little, “Don’t leave me, Draco. Just stay for a little longer. Everyone leaves.”

Chest aching fiercely, Draco quickly settles down next to Harry, and says, firmly, “I am  _ not  _ leaving you, Harry, alright? I am not leaving you.”

He ends up casting a quick refreshing charm instead of the change of clothes he planned on getting. Harry shivers violently and Draco quickly helps him under the covers before getting onto changing Harry’s bandages again, the cuts are still bleeding sluggishly. Draco swallows the panic with a resolve he didn't know he had. 

He'll panic later.

The black lines spreading from the cuts up to Harry's wrists and even further up, make him want to be sick, he doesn’t want to think about how much they must hurt. Harry’s hand trembles like he’s having a seizure and Draco has to hold it steady with one hand as he cleans it with a wet rag and wraps it in clean dry bandages. 

Harry’s eyes linger on the bandages on Draco’s hand, but thankfully, he doesn’t ask. His eyes are starting to droop, and he is too warm, burning up. If it wasn’t for his fluttering lids and gasping breaths, Draco would have been checking his pulse every few minutes. 

It occurs to him, perhaps for the first time since last night, that Harry might die. 

Oh merlin. He might die before Severus gets here. Draco will have to live here with Harry Potter's body for hours, maybe fucking days, until he comes. 

And if that's not bad. The image of  _ Harry  _ being dead is worse. Harry cannot die. Not now that Draco has him. It sounds wrong in his head, selfishly possessive but he doesn't care. Years he has been trying to befriend the boy lying on the couch, and now that there's finally  _ something  _ between them, Harry's poisoned. 

Well, the poisoning has been going on for a long time. It just took Draco an embarrassingly long amount of time to notice. If only he had gone to Severus for help sooner… none of this would have happened.

Harry's hands would have been fine, Bella and Rosier wouldn't have tortured them. His  _ father  _ would be alive. His face wouldn't be heinous and disfigured. His shoulder wouldn't be in agony all the time.

He should have gone to Severus. Why did he have to be so fucking stubborn?

"Draco," Harry murmurs.

Draco looks at him. 

"'m sorry," Harry mutters, voice slurring.

"Don't be. It's going to be fine." Just don't die. He cannot stomach the thought. 

"I said it," his eyes have closed now, and the panic fluttering in Draco’s chest feels slightly detached. 

Draco frowns. "Said what?" but Harry isn't paying attention. 

"I'm not gonna do that, Sirius. Stop."

"Do what, Harry?" Draco lays a hand on Harry’s forehead and recoils at how hot it is. 

"Sirius is being annoying."

"Who?” He blinks, trying to place what Harry is saying, “Sirius Black? No one is here. It's just us." 

"Yeah,” Harry leans into Draco’s hand as Draco summons a bowl and rag, filling the bowl with cool water, “Don't mind him if he…"

"If he?" Draco removes his hand to wet the rag, ignoring Harry’s muffled protest at the loss of contact. 

"I don't know."

"Okay," he says before wringing the rag out and lays it on Harry’s forehead. Harry’s small sigh unknots something tight in Draco’s chest.

"Do you know the Ukulele song?" Harry asks after a moment.

Draco pauses in where he was laying another rag under Harry’s neck and says, "No." 

"It goes, la, la,  _ la la _ … " Draco swallows harshly, he’d thought they were past the delirium. 

"Maybe you should,” he says, “try sleeping again." 

"No,” Harry frowns, trying to wriggle away from where Draco is trying to put some of the cool rags under his armpits too, “Cedric is mad. I like you better."

"Okay.” Draco takes a deep breath, “Okay. Let's try anyway." 

"I've never slept with anyone. Did you know that?"

"Yes Potter, you're fifteen, obviously a virgin." The cloth on Harry’s forehead has become warm worryingly fast. 

"No,” Harry gives a giggle, but then sobers up with a gurgling cough, “like… just sleep. But then, you offered a pillow. It's nice."

"Sounds like you like it," Draco says, moving on to changing the one under Harry’s neck, and then the others, methodically. He’s not really cooling down. Severus isn't here yet, might never be here, because he could be  _ DEAD _ . Draco wouldn't know. They're stuck here. 

"I do. You're nice. And your hair…" Harry rambles on. Draco swallows again. They're stuck. Harry might die. If not, then they'll starve to death after a while, those ingredients aren't going to last them forever. 

Or worse, Harry and Severus could both die. And Draco would be left here with a rotting body of someone who was once his enemy, for days and days and days. Until the smell is burned into Draco's memory, and decomposition has already set in. And Harry’s rotting flesh the last image that’s burned into his skull before he too dies in this watery, sandy grave, carved with fucking shells. 

"What about it," he says out loud, as calmly as he can.

He cannot leave Harry's body to the sea, he just cannot. If Harry dies, Draco might as well. He has nothing else. His mother is dead, his father is dead, the dark lord lives in his Manor, his godfather might as well be gone. 

Oblivious to Draco's inner disaster scenario, Harry keeps talking. "Smells so… I don't know. I want to smell it all the time." He pouts, "But I cannot, because Sirius said it’s 'weird!'. He knows stuff. My godfather. "

"Is he here?" Draco is starting to get really worried about Harry’s godfather. The stress is like stones striking the already large boulder on his shoulders, and it’s already pressing down on his back, pushing and restricting his movements. He hates it.

"He's a dick," Harry says, 

Draco sighs. "Okay." He closes his eyes, rubs his forehead. "Okay," he says again, "Let's try to sleep." Harry scoffs, Draco groans. "Seriously," he pushes. 

"Ugh, shut up!"

"Me?" Draco asks, taken aback.

"No!" Harry says, quickly.

"Fuck," Draco curses, the water in the bowl, which previously had been ice-cold, has already become more than lukewarm. It hasn’t even been a full fifteen minutes. Harry’s temperature hasn’t changed.

"You curse a lot."

"You make me,” Draco says, and vanishes the bowl and rags. They aren’t helping. Maybe a bath would. And Harry smells awful. “How does your hand feel? Any pain?" 

"Which... one,"

"The one that should be bloody hurting? "

"Don't know. I have  _ no  _ idea." Harry’s head lolls limply as Draco tries to prop him up into a sitting position, the covers fall off the couch and on the floor. 

"This would be a lot easier if you cooperated,” Draco says gruffly, “Is it numb? Hurting?" 

"I don't know. Stop shouting," Harry finally wraps one arm around Draco’s shoulders and Draco has to bite down hard on the inside of his cheeks to keep from crying out in pain, his shoulder is  _ mostly  _ healed, but that doesn’t mean it’s  _ completely  _ healed, it never will be. 

Harry is usually very mindful when it comes to his injuries, but obviously, this Harry doesn't care. “Where are we going?”

"I wasn't shouting, and the bathroom," Draco grumbles.

"Now you are. I'm cold,"

"Fuck Severus,  _ Merlin _ , where in the name of the nine bloody hells is he," gritting his teeth a bit, Draco stands up, they stumble a bit, but steady after a few seconds. Then Harry goes limp again and decides to flop his head on Draco’s shoulder. 

"Sirius likes you," Draco looks down at Harry incredulously. 

"Do you even know that man?" 

"Yeah,” Harry smiles listlessly, “He calls me kiddo,"

"Of course he bloody does. Just so you know, I'm going to kill Severus."

"Potions," he chortles, "Use. Potion."

Draco snorts, “You know what?” he starts walking, more like stumbling, towards the bathroom, “I think I will.”

"That would be funny. He's a potions… teacher. So funny," 

"Hysterical," Draco says. 

It takes them longer than it should to reach the bathroom, and Harry can’t balance on the toilet seat long enough for Draco to fill the bathtub, so Draco has to sit Harry on the floor, propped up against the tub, still babbling on about his godfather, and a rat.

Draco is too peeved and exhausted to check the time, but can see the sun has already gone down from the tiny window in the bathroom as Harry rests in the tub, still in his clothes, his eyes closed, and his face peaceful for the first time since last night. 

The shake in his hands seems to be reduced a little but Draco can still see the slight tremor, there's a tremor in his own hands for very different reasons. 

He's terrified. He has no idea what to do. And Harry might seem better now but the day is over, and if Severus doesn't come over soon, they're really really screwed. 

His shoulder hurts from where Harry had accidentally put pressure on the wound, he's hungry because he hasn't eaten anything all day, and he's gross and disgusting because he had foregone the morning obligatory shower because he was too afraid his… companion would bleed to death if left alone. 

Never in his life, has Draco hated the sight of himself this much. 

Harry's eyes open, and they look clearer, Draco holds his gaze.

"I feel disgusting," he says with a groan. 

Draco hums, "Me too."

"Give me my toothbrush," the blonde takes this as a good sign and hands the object over. It's fine now, he thinks, it's going to be fine. Harry is going to be fine.

Harry’s eyes are clearer. He’s even stopped babbling. And maybe he’s imagining it, but even his temperature feels down. 

Severus is too careful to let himself be killed. He will be back, Draco is  _ sure  _ of it. Harry  _ will  _ be fine. He is fine. He is, after all, the boy who lived.

And then, the seizures start that night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We all know that this year was a rough one, we were constantly tested and challenged and put through the wringer, but we still had the good moments. For us, those were whenever we got a comment or kudos from you all! And now here we are, and the year is over! Finally over. Things are about to look up again. New year, new life. 
> 
> Stay safe everyone!


	25. The Story Behind Your Story

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings for; explicit language, depiction of injury, discussion of character death. 
> 
> Next update on 22nd January, Friday.

_ “But there's a story behind everything. How a picture got on a wall. How a scar got on your face. Sometimes the stories are simple, and sometimes they are hard and heartbreaking. But behind all your stories is always your mother's story, because hers is where yours begin.” _

_ ― Mitch Albom _

… 

_ Dear friend, _

_ I am somewhat surprised by your attempts to contact me, specially regarding the whereabouts of a potion made by your own hand. Nevertheless, the name that you gave me sparked my inquiry.  _

_ I am quite certain that you are aware of the pink bitch's existence regardless of her identity. Few people, aside from our lord, are aware of the bitch's full name, but I'm sure you know that she holds a place in the ministry.  _

_ To confirm my suspicions I paid a visit to Rosier's charming cell and we 'conversed' until he gave up the name. You should be looking for a Dolores Umbridge, the minister's undersecretary. She is stationed in Hogwarts, as I'm sure you also know.  _

_ Your gift to me was quite lovely, I will be sure to make use of the locusta's horns. I know how rare they are to come by.  _

_ I hope your questions have been answered, if not, then do not write to me again, my dear.  _

_ My next mission is killing you.  _

_ Sincerely yours, _

_ V. _

He watches it burn as soon as he's finished reading, wrinkling his nose at the smell. The parchment crumples on itself and the remains fall down on his desk in a pile. Severus impassively brushes it off with a swipe of his hand. 

Albus doesn’t know about this correspondence, and Severus wants to keep it that way.

Innocuous as it may seem, the burned vestiges of a parchment, a wrong step in the wrong direction, even a simple tic could alert the old man, propel him into acting, high strung as he’s been the last few days. Weeks.

Severus doesn't want that. 

His eyes trail upwards from his worn desk and to the wall in front of him. A small circular frame gazes back at him, the black and white portrait of a man with high cheekbones and amused eyes. The hair is tied at the nape, and he is wearing a muggle suit. 

It exudes smug knowledge. Severus sneers. He couldn't stomach the man even when he was alive, and now he's not particularly thrilled about sleeping in a dead man's bed.

But needs must, he knows that better than anyone, and Albus has been overly generous by offering him someone else's empty cottage.

He is not ungrateful. It's either a gruesome death, or this. And he’s got his priorities straight.

The figure in the picture smirks at him, as if indulging him in an inner secret, and fixes his collar, and it's just that in a loop. 

Dolores Umbridge was the pink bitch. 

Of course. 

It adds up, all the small dots are now connected together in his mind. She and Rosier cornered Potter and Draco, dragged them into her office and then took them to the Manor. It wasn't Rosier playing on a whim, and it wasn't Umbridge going a tad too far in serving Fudge. 

He almost smacks himself for being so simple-minded. Had he paid adequate attention to Potter since the start of the year, he would have known. Would have noticed  _ something _ .

It was too difficult a task for him, looking the boy in the eyes and ignoring the trauma, and now that he's been stained by Bella… it barely improved things. 

Severus has always prided himself in being a level headed man.

Always discreet in his emotions, and not showing them, however much he may be harried. Constantly not letting external circumstances prick his nerves, affect his work. 

He has prided himself in keeping a calm demeanour, and impassive nature.

When the breach in the wards had been followed by Potter and Draco being kidnapped, Albus had predicted that something big was coming. That the Dark Lord had been planning something. Even Severus had to admit that he had felt the undercurrents of something thrumming, before his ‘betrayal’, something the Dark Lord had been hiding even from him. It had made him uneasy, even though he’d known that Lord Voldemort was smart enough not to keep all his eggs in the same basket.

Perhaps Severus  _ should  _ have expected it, after all, Tom Riddle does have a certain flair for the dramatic, Severus thinks with a wry smile which bordered more on a grimace.

The drama that comes on whenever he's amused. And the Dark Lord's amusement almost always is fueled by smugness. Smugness means that they're missing something. Something huge. 

They may have predicted something big, but they hadn’t predicted four coordinated attacks of this magnitude. And if they thought Voldemort coming out to the public would work in their favour, it certainly did not. 

All of Severus' meticulously perfected calm exterior had crumbled down from sheer shock. It wasn’t a fast process, it didn’t happen in one single blow, in one news that there had been three attacks and that Voldemort was addressing the wizarding world as a whole from the ministry. 

No, the process had started very, very long ago. 

Sometimes, he wonders if it started as long ago as that fateful day in his fifth year. 

But right now, he only thinks as far back as the day Narcissa died. 

Or Lily's demise.

Or the night he begged that bastard to spare a life in order to kill an infant and his father. 

It's all a blur at times. He locks it all up. 

Umbridge is going to be tricky. No one likes her. Absolutely no one. Except herself, probably. But she has, on the outside, done nothing wrong. Nothing wrong that anyone can see. Other than exist, that is. 

She doesn’t appear to bear the mark either. Which is the part that has been giving them the most trouble. They cannot prove a crime without evidence. The ministry is too busy mopping up the remains from the attacks and dealing with the compromised employees who had been under the Imperius Curse. No one had time to deal with Hogwarts, not with the leader of the board of governors dead. 

It seemed like one blow after the other. The Dark Lord had disposed of Lucius' body by leaving it in Devon during one of the attacks, despite the body looking days older than the rest of the victims it was easily discernible from the rest, Lucius Malfoy, with his brains blown out, his son missing, and his wife presumed dead. 

The only silver lining through it all has been that Potter’s antidote is finally complete. 

Severus had contacted his other informant last week, inquiring about the nature of his potions supply in the Dark Lord's possession. He hadn't received a reply as of yet, but he was more than sure that the poison must have come directly from those supplies. 

He'd only made 'The Onyx Tear' three times since inventing it. Once a small batch for his own personal supply, currently locked in his potion closet behind the Veritaserum vials, the locks needed his blood in order to unlock and upon checking, they were still there. The second time was on the Dark Lord's request nearly sixteen years ago, and hadn't heard of it again. 

The last time was four years ago upon one of his 'friend's' request. Severus was sure that the poison was used that same year and the results were successful, he got paid for it after all.

That only left the Dark Lord's supplies. Which means he had been supplying Umbridge, which further proves her involvement with the Death Eaters. Of course, Severus cannot bring that particular information under the spotlight. The poison isn't registered in the ministry, two of the ingredients have been banned from the British Isles since before Severus was born. 

That was why the antidote took him this long to make, a pickled human liver wasn't exactly easy or cheap to come by. 

But at last, it is finished. Severus is aware of how fast he needs to act now. He knows that the poison must have kicked in either the previous night or this morning, he just prays that it's not too late. 

He packs the vials with care, in his old leather bag designed exactly for this purpose. He ties his wand holster on his wrist and swiftly slides his wand in place, and only then remembers about the Occlumency books he was supposed to give Potter.

Albus had been concerned about that as well, although this seemed to pose more of a secondary concern than a real one since Potter isn't privy to any sensitive information. Thankfully it seemed like the Order had done their jobs properly this time. 

Severus picks up the books and his bag and heads for the floo. He needs to floo to the salamander's enclave and then apparate to the cottage. The floo powder sparks a deep green as Severus steps in, closes his eyes and says "Salamander's Enclave!" 

***

Severus doesn’t know what he’s expecting when he enters the cottage. The Potter boy is important, not only to the Light side, Albus, to Lily, he is important to him because he was important to Lily. And for some reason, he is also important to Draco. 

And about three fourth of Hogwarts. 

And the boy’s life depends on the antidote he is carrying, and if he is late… 

Overthinking had always been one of his many faults. Despite being a master occlumens. The irony. At least he knows how to compartmentalise. 

The cottage itself feels slightly removed from the air outside, too quiet. The air is stale, smelling of blood and vomit. Sweat and unwashed clothes. Sickness. Spending years as a potions masters, and living through a war, he moves through, unfazed, although his mind whirrs with possibilities. 

Severus is concerned at first but he starts to grow alarmed when he can’t find Potter or Draco in the living room or any of the bedrooms. He sends out a locator charm, and is ridiculously relieved to find that they’re both in the bathroom. The fact that he didn't think of checking in there first shows just how tightly strung his nerves are.

What he does  _ not  _ expect upon entering the bathroom is to duck a vial of his own potion thrown his way. 

“WHERE THE  _ FUCK  _ WERE YOU?”

Severus almost stumbles right back out of the bathroom at the sheer rage in Draco’s voice, twisting it into something unrecognisable. He’s only heard it that… distraught when Narcissa was being murdered in front of him. He almost whips his wand out, eyes darting around for signs of danger, his mind going to the possibility that the wards may be breached, which shouldn’t be  _ possible  _ but--

Then the words register. 

He doesn’t have time to react further when another vial comes flying his way. He lunges away from the vial as it goes crashing sideways and out of the door, shattering somewhere in the corridor. 

“Do you have any idea? ANY FUCKING IDEA ABOUT HOW SCARED I WAS?” Draco is on his knees, one hand clenched around his mother’s wand, surrounded by vials of his potions. 

Before Severus can take stock of anything else of the situation, the mirror on the wall explodes in a shower of sparks. Severus couldn’t remember the last time Draco had reacted with accidental magic.

Discreetly, he takes out his wand, trying not to frighten Draco further. He doesn't move an inch from his position. 

“HE COULD HAVE  _ DIED _ !”

Severus winces but is a little relieved because that sentence means Potter is still alive, and alive means savable. He opens his mouth, “Draco--”

“NO,  _ NO _ ! YOU DON’T GET TO SPEAK! Do you hear me? I don’t even KNOW where we are, WHAT do you think I was supposed to do? WHAT?!” This time it’s the windows that explode outwards, and Severus almost flinches back. He notices the Potter boy on the floor for the first time, and only because he  _ did  _ flinch at the shattering of the windows. 

Draco’s breathing is harsh and loud in the room, and the lights are flickering, looking like they’re about to go out any moment. The room smells strongly of rotting flesh, and blood.

“I would have been left alone with a fucking dead body.  _ Living _ with a goddamned dead body,” Draco’s face twists into an ugly expression and he grabs a couple of vials off of the ground and hurls them in his direction so quickly that Severus almost isn’t able to get out of the way fast enough, “Because of YOUR STUPID FUCKING POTIONS!”

“Draco, just listen-” Severus starts but then Draco points his wand at him and lets out another scream, “SHUT UP!”

Severus deflects the spell coming his way and quickly disarms the boy. He understands, he really does. But every second they waste is another second Potter slips away. They will deal with Draco’s anger when Potter isn’t knocking on death’s door. 

He regrets it, but he sends a stunning spell towards Draco before lowering him to the floor gently. He spares a glance over him to see if he is injured or not, and deeming him alright, turns his attention to Harry. 

Potter is laying down on the floor beside a bathtub filled with stale smelling pink-tinged water. Surrounded by mounds of bloodied towels and a… vomit filled bucket. Grimacing a little, he sees that the vomit is bloody too. There are also broken potion vials surrounding the boy. He sincerely hopes that Draco was smart enough not to give Potter any potions in accordance with his express instructions not to. 

The boy is currently twitching and jerking, his eyes moving rapidly beneath lids, and murmuring feverishly under his breath. His cheeks are flushed a bright red, but the rest of his body looks ashen. 

Taking Potter’s hand by the wrist elicits a loud cry, loud enough to make Severus think for a moment that Potter has awoken. He carefully unwraps the soaked through, hastily wrapped looking bandages, and has to wrinkle his nose at what he finds underneath. 

It… doesn’t look good. He’s seen a lot of gruesome things in his lifetime as a potions master, and as a Death Eater. But Potter’s hand really doesn’t look good. He glances back at Draco, still lying on the cold bathroom floor, his face lined with tension even in unconsciousness, and his mouth tightens in sympathy. 

Harry’s hand has swollen to twice its size, purple, and red. The blood poisoning lines are extending from his now barely visible cuts to above his wrist, and are bleeding instead of the cuts, raised and pulsing. 

What could possibly cause it to accelerate this rapidly? It baffles Severus. The wound was variably stable when he left it. He stashes the thought away for later.

The boy’s barely breathing and he’s too cold. Which means he’s moved past the fever stage. Which means they have very very little time.

He doesn’t have time to move him to a more comfortable spot. Taking out his knife, he carefully makes a series of very small, shallow cuts over the black veins extending on Potter’s hand. Dark blood starts oozing out of his hand at an alarming speed, as expected. Severus uncorks his vial of the antidote and opens the boy's mouth. Making him drink half of the bottle takes no effort and he starts massaging his throat to make him swallow. 

To his credit, Potter only sputters and coughs a little before he drinks it. The swelling has gone down a little with the intentional blood letting, along with the poison, but Severus can’t risk too much or he might start drawing out blood instead of poison. He vanishes the mess in the bathtub and the bucket, before filling the bathtub again, this time with hot water. He has to start getting the boy’s temperature up.

Levitating Potter into it, he sets him down gently and angles his head out of it. Putting in a spell to keep his head above the water, he starts towards Draco, lips pursed. 

There's a lot to be done. 

***

Draco's heartbeat is in his throat. 

His eyes are wide open and he can hear shuffling far away, everything else is muffled, and the couch's afghan is pulled over him. 

He scrambles out of the couch with lightning speed, even though he's tangled up with the afghan and runs to the kitchen, Severus has his back to him, calmly fiddling with the kettle Draco had washed out last night.

The kettle Harry adores because of the bee patterns. 

The thought of Harry jostles him into action again, Draco turns, wrapped up like a homeless wizard and all, and scans the first floor with his heartbeat still pounding in his ears. 

He's not here. Two possibilities. Either he's dead or he's upstairs.

The thought of the first weakens his knees into noodles, so he grapples onto the second hunch and runs to the stairs. He almost trips and breaks his fucking neck twice in his haste. 

Their room is closer than the bathroom so he checks it first, and as he sees Harry on the bed all the adrenaline rushes out of his body in a blur. He slowly approaches the bed and sinks down by the edge. 

"Fuck," he breathes, and then resumes staring at Harry's face. A lot less flushed, cleaned by his godfather obviously. Even his clothes have been changed, his hand laid in a bulk of clean, pristine bandages. Draco has never been relieved by such a sight in his life. 

The relief he feels is so overwhelming that he can tell his eyes are glazing, and his heart slowing down. Without quite thinking about what he's doing, Draco runs a shaking hand through Harry's hair, and of course, they're soft and messy as always. 

Draco might be overstepping a boundary but he doesn't care, the adrenaline crash is acute enough that even as he leans down and quickly grazes Harry's forehead, nothing feels wrong or illicit. Just relieving. 

His lips linger on the warm skin, and he exhales. "Okay," he tells them both. 

"It's going to be okay."

***

"Why don't you join me?" he says without looking up from his cup, his ears straining as Draco shuffles into the kitchen, his clothes rumpled and his hair blood-tinged and unkempt. Unusual for him. 

He doesn’t answer. 

"This has been overdue, Draco.” Severus sighs, “We need to talk."

"About what?" 

"Your mother.” Draco doesn’t flinch, only twitches a little, and Severus doesn’t know if that’s a good sign or not. “She would have wanted you to know this." Truth is, Severus isn’t sure what Narcissa would have wanted for Draco in this situation, they didn’t have any contingency plans for this. They should have, they  _ did _ , but not about the emotional aspect of it all. 

"Harry was dying," Draco says instead. Severus frowns. He knows for a fact that Draco just came down after checking up on Potter. 

"He's fine now. Resting upstairs, I have vitals on him. We need to talk about you now."

There’s a pause where Draco stares at him. 

"Alright,” Draco pushes away the teacup Severus had pushed in his direction, making the tea slosh a little, “Talk away." 

"I'm sorry she had to be taken from you--” Severus holds up a hand when Draco opens his mouth, cutting off whatever he’d been about to say, “Let me finish, Draco.” 

When he’s sure Draco is going to listen, he continues, “I'm sorry, but she… your parents were aware of the risks. Your mother in particular. Her death didn't just come about out of nowhere,” he clears his throat, “She knew how it might end long ago." 

"What are you saying?" Draco finally looks up from where he’s picking splinters at the table. 

"I work for Dumbledore, in case you haven’t figured it out for yourself. I…” he clears his throat again, feeling rather silly afterwards, but then shakes his head and continues, “I had to repent for my former sins in a way, and gathering information for the other side kept my conscience… clearer.” Severus keeps steady eye contact with Draco as he continues, “Your mother felt the same way when she had you." 

"Severus," Draco says, his fingers frozen where he’s about to pick off another piece of splinter from the table with his nails. Severus barely holds in a grimace.

Severus cannot hear him over the sound of his own thoughts. "She and Lucius were ecstatic. They never realized they would have children at that age, your mother had a few pregnancy scares before you-" 

"Severus."

"-health concerns that Lucius was willing to live with." He knows he started this conversation, but he wants to end it as soon as possible. Draco has already suffered enough. Both his parents dead in such a short span of time, and now to find out half of your life was a lie?

"Severus." 

"But then you came along.” He’s sort of rambling now, but best to get it over with, “It changed everything-"

"SEVERUS!" Draco shouts, his eyes blaze a molten silver as he slams his hand rather forcefully on the table. 

"What?!" Severus shoots Draco an irritated look before noting the expression on his face. 

"You were a spy?" he asks.

"Yes, yes I am.” Severus frowns. Is that all Draco took away from everything he’d been speaking? Did Draco truly not know this whole time? “That's what I was trying to say. Why do you think I rescued you?"

Draco shrugs, looking away for the first time, "Sudden spike in paternal love?"

Severus snorts, "I have been working for him for a long time,” he waves a hand dismissively, “Although now my cover has been blown. I wasn't the only one."

"I don't understand," Draco says softly, and meets his eyes again. He does, though. Draco is smarter than that. Severus sighs. Time to drop the bombshell then. 

"Your mother was also a colleague of mine. An operative agent, she worked under the codename 'Argent'--"

"Silver," Draco’s voice sounds a little strangled, and Severus considers stopping. But this conversation has been long due, and Draco may be a Slytherin, he may not be the textbook, foolish, stupid, ‘Gryffindor’ definition of ‘brave’, but he’s not, by any means, weak.

"Her favourite colour, yes. The colour of your father's eyes,”  _ And yours _ , he doesn’t add, “She was an informant, more heavily involved these past few years than she was when you were a child. She knew of the risks, but she also knew that she needed to keep you safe." The lengths a mother would go to save her child really shouldn’t surprise Severus any more, but it never fails to amaze him. 

Draco wets his lips. "Did father…"

"Your parents had a very strange dynamic, Draco." Severus cuts in, "Lucius knew things that he needed to know, Narcissa knew things that she needed to. Whatever they did, they did to protect you,"

"They're dead now… I…" Draco is looking a little dazed, as if he hasn’t really comprehended the full implications of what Severus is saying, and perhaps that is the only reason he isn’t reacting more strongly. 

"She was very adamant that you be safe, under all circumstances. They had many measures in place. She didn't expect to be exposed by her own sister," Severus did. He expected a lot of things, usually the worst. Although the last few weeks had still come as a nasty surprise to him. 

"Bella, she…” Draco makes a strangled noise, “How could  _ she? _ "

"I'm sorry, Draco. I don't think your father knew before Bella did, but they had divulged safety measures with me, shortly after Cissa suspected… Lucius knew then. You know your father wasn't a very emotional man."

He does, Severus can see the bitterness seep out of the boy by the way his lip curls down, the same way Narcissa's did. "My father detested sentiment," he says.

Severus tries his hardest to keep any shred of pity out of his eyes. He doesn't need Draco to think he's being pitied. He knows that Lucius and Narcissa weren't the most expressive couple, but Draco must have known how much they cared for each other. "Your father loved her more than anything else in this world. I could see how this destroyed him." Severus silently mourns the man he once knew as a friend. "But he had to think of you first," 

Draco's eyes narrow, his face hardens. "Was he a fucking spy too?" He snarls. 

"No." Severus takes a sip of his cold tea. 

"Was anything they ever said to me the truth?"

"They loved you," Severus says steadily. It’s not exactly supposed to help, it’s just a reason. For everything. 

"Well,” Draco slams his hands on the table, and his own forgotten cup rattles precariously before settling, “Love won't bring them back!"

"She wanted you to know, Draco," he says and it's the most half true, white lie, dragon dung that he has ever spoken aloud. 

They did have a plan. Always had a plan because of course, a Slytherin without a plan wasn't worth dead or alive. Severus has nearly every key, to every single ward around the Malfoy properties for contingencies. 

He doesn't have the key to his own godson's mind. She never told him how to tell Draco. She just assumed that he will.

The most important thing in her life was her son and husband, nothing else counted. 

"Her loss was a great one indeed,” he continues before he can dwell, “A lot of people relied on her." 

"How could she be so selfish?” Draco’s nails scrape against the table as he grips at it, his face twisting, “How could she… I'm her son! I deserved her more! She just threw her life away, for a bunch of mudblood lovers-"

Severus’ fingers curl a little in his lap as he cuts Draco off, "She sacrificed herself because she wanted you to live in a better world." 

Draco knocks his cup away, sending it hurling into the air. "I don't want to live in a better world!" he yells as the cup cracks, “I wanted to live with my fucking family!" 

Severus scowls. "If that's what you truly believe then why are you so attached to Potter? He's the cause of all of this, you know-"

Draco's eyes widen. He wasn't expecting Severus to do that. Severus takes grim satisfaction in watching Draco sputter, "He isn't-"

He is. In Severus' mind, he always will be, because it was easier to blame an infant for the death of his best friend, and because his existence was what put her in danger in the first place. 

It feels less pathetic to be petty in the privacy of his own mind. 

"He  _ is.  _ And you know it," he grits out. "You are not a stupid boy, we have raised you right, use your intellectual skills for one single moment, assert your logic, look past those pesky feelings you have regarding the boy, and answer me; is he not the cause of this war?" 

A small voice murmurs in his head,  _ ‘Who relayed the prophecy to the Dark Lord?’ _ He doesn’t know if the voice sounds more like Lily or Albus. He knows it’s an argument he’d never win if Draco knew all the points. He knows he’s cheating, but Slytherins aren’t known to play fair, Slytherins are known to win. 

Draco just looks at him for a bit before leaning back into his chair. "You're a bastard."

Severus' eyebrow flick upwards. "You're not refuting me." 

Draco is thinking, Severus sees the mental process, of his eyes narrowing, his brows furrowing, Severus knows that look, he also has a kindling of what the boy is about to say. 

"If we're going to play the blame game, you're picking the wrong player,'' The blonde starts with a grim smirk," Harry cannot be responsible for a madman's actions. Riddle is who started this, he's the one who's responsible for this war. Every bit of it. Harry is innocent." He says with absolute conviction. He might as well have said, "The sky is blue,".

"Then why do you think your mother had any choice in order to do what she did? We have responsibilities, Draco. She knew hers. Harry Potter knows his. Everyone is supposed to be here for a reason." 

"What's mine?” Draco gives a bitter laugh, slightly hysterical, sounding a little too close to a sob, “War victim?" 

"Choose yours,” Severus says flatly, “Everyone would be a war victim otherwise, everyone  _ is  _ a war victim, don't let them pick a role out for you. I didn't let them, your mother didn't, even your father had the sense not to do so. I know what goes in your head, Draco." He lowers his voice just so, before continuing, "You'd forgotten that I helped raise you too. I know you think that being mad at them for getting you involved is the easiest route. But is it the logical one?" 

"Fuck logic." He says with the resentment so out of tune with his face. 

It was the Malfoy gene, Severus supposes. They're not meant to express pain.

"You cannot,” Severus shrugs, “You have to pick a side instead," he looks at Draco from his head to chest, notes the small details, the bloodstains, the hard crinkle around his eyes, his rumpled clothes. "I don't think you'll need to think too hard about it either. Judging by your physical state." It pains him, saying this. Pains him to see how attached Draco's gotten to Potter already, and to what lengths he goes in order to save his life, "I'm going to say you already made that choice."

"I can’t pick a side in this war." But Severus can hear it in his voice, and it contradicts what he says. 

He lets his gaze wander upwards to the ceiling, where Potter is resting in the bedroom. "I think you already have." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks a bunch to our wonderful, one-of-a-kind beta, Amar! He always makes our chapters so much better, and making us write our best. He’s one of our most invested readers and we love him! XD


	26. The Day Returns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings for; explicit language, discussion of multiple child deaths and violence. 
> 
> Next update on 4th February, Friday.

_ "Darkness settles on roofs and walls, _

_ But the sea, the sea in the darkness calls; _

_ The little waves, with their soft, white hands, _

_ Efface the footprints in the sands, _

_ And the tide rises, the tide falls. _

_ The morning breaks; the steeds in their stalls _

_ Stamp and neigh, as the hostler calls; _

_ The day returns, but nevermore _

_ Returns the traveller to the shore, _

_ And the tide rises, the tide falls." _

_ -Henry Wadsworth (the tide rises, the tide falls) _

...

The goldfish are bigger than Harry, and he almost looks laughably measly and small in the face of the swirling creatures. They're a deep orange, like the colour of Ron's hair, but a shade darker, and their eyes are the size of Harry's head. 

It should be disconcerting, but Harry doesn't mind them, they're on the other side of the aquarium, doing their own thing, and he sits on the cold, damp floor in front of them, cross-legged and alone. He doesn't mind it, the coolness feels blissful on his heated skin. 

Harry gazes into their eyes, marvels at the way their scales shine in the blue light, the same that creates a blue hue on Harry's face, the water seems tinged with it. 

'Remember elementary school?' Sirius says behind him, Harry is somewhat surprised by the sudden company but doesn't turn to look over his shoulder. 'Your class used to have a goldfish, what was that bugger's name? Timmy?'

"Yes," Harry replies, he hears the man's footsteps behind him, coming closer, "Dudley forgot to feed him, and I got blamed for his death."

'It was the teacher's fault. Entrusting a goldfish to a seven-year-old? Muggles. This giant one reminds me of Timmy. Both had huge eyes.'

Harry frowns, he feels the man slipping on the ground next to him, swiftly crossing his legs. "Timmy's eyes weren't golden." 

Sirius shrugs. They're silent again, but only for a short while. Harry looks at the fish while Sirius looks at him.

'You need to leave now, Kiddo,' he says, 'You've been here with this giant bastard long enough.'

"He's the answer to a very delicate question, don't talk about him like that," 

'And that question is?' 

"I was wrong before," he nods at the giant fish, "They cannot blink. They don't have eyelids. I've been wondering about it for the longest time until he helped me." 

'Why should you care?' Sirius asks.

"It's a distraction from the pain," Harry shrugs, not taking his eyes off the goldfish, locked in a staring match Harry can’t possibly win. 

'That's what I was telling you,” Sirius says, sounding uncharacteristically patient, “It's over now. You need to go back.' 

"Already?” Harry finally looks away, “I don't think it's been too long." 

'You don't want to leave.' Sirius sounds accusing, for someone who is entirely a figment of Harry's imagination, 'You cannot stay.'

"I know. But this-” Harry waves one non-shaking hand towards the fishes, “this is a rare sight.”

'You've been here for a day already. Draco is worried.'

Harry's ears slightly perk upon hearing the boy's name. "He has been, hasn't he? Alright. You go ahead. I'll follow you."

Sirius gets up, brushes off his trousers with a huff and turns away. 'Sometimes you make me wonder if that will always be the case,' he says, but Harry can hear his footsteps fading away from the aquarium. 

***

Harry wakes, and it feels as if his eyelids had been glued together for an eternity. 

He cannot feel his hand, but that's a major step up from excruciating pain, and Harry takes it, glancing around the room with slight interest. The curtains are drawn, and there's an extra duvet covering him, Harry cannot hear anything but the sea. 

The bed is empty except for him, and the side next to him is unrumpled. He looks around the room one more time and strains to hear anything else. 

He doesn't have to wait for long, just as he has mustered up enough strength to push the first duvet off his chest, the door creaks open, and Harry stops. Draco quietly steps in and closes the door behind himself, as he turns, his composure dramatically shifts and he's running to the bed. 

"Merlin!" he says and Harry speechlessly stares at him. His clothes are all messy, there's blood in his hair, Harry really hopes that's his dried blood and not Draco's. There's even some smudged against the scar on the boy's cheek and Harry wants to wipe it off. 

"M' name's Harry."

Draco is so harried that he doesn't even react to Harry's quip. "Thank god, you're awake." Draco's hand is on his forehead and it's cool, just as cool and  _ good  _ against his skin as the damp floor of the aquarium. 

"What's going on?"

"I was so worried." The blond sits back, the bed dips under his weight. 

"Why?" 

Draco's hand prods his face and then promptly he leans down to gaze at Harry's hand, bulked under the bandages. "Are you in pain or anything?" he asks. "I'm pretty sure there's no fever, and Severus says you cannot possibly be allergic to the potion, but I had to check." 

Harry inwardly checks himself over, no pain anywhere, just the slight numbness in his hand. Draco looks exhausted. 

"No pain. Are you okay? There's blood in your hair," his hand twitches in his lap. 

Draco smirks up at him. "I carried out my earlier threat. Murdered Severus in cold blood." 

Harry jerks, "Oh my god, what?!"

"Oh,” Draco says, smile fading a little, “You don't remember… nevermind." 

Harry stares at Draco's hand, loosely holding his without any hesitation, his skin is warm but Harry can only get glimpses of it where the boy's fingers brush against his skin. The blond doesn't even seem to notice he's holding Harry's hand, he's peering at Harry's face instead.

Harry finally looks up at him, meets his eyes while subtly pushing his fingers upwards into Draco's palm. He looks paler than Harry remembered him being. 

"I'm fine," he tells the boy, immersed in the way Draco's grey eyes flicker with relief, and the way his shoulders instantly sag down, his whole body, in fact, seems to be going lax, and then suddenly he's sprawled near Harry.

"Draco?" 

"Fine," the boy grunts. "I'm 'ine."

He squeezes Harry's fingers, and Harry squeezes them back, as well as he can through the thick bulk of bandages. He drops back against his own pillow, taking in the faint smell of blood and Draco's own scent just beneath his nostrils. 

He raises his other hand, he wants to run it through Draco's mused hair, but he doesn't. Draco won't like that. Well, he doesn't particularly look like he would care about anything at the moment. Draco's already passed out, his mouth open a bit and his hand still in Harry's. 

Harry stays like that for a while, staring into the seashell embedded wall in front of him as Draco doses off, grumbling something incoherent every once in a while. There's a knock on his door, sometime later, and the doorknob turns. 

Harry watches as Snape's eyes swiftly run over him and Draco's slumped form. He rolls his eyes and draws out his wand as he approaches the bed. 

"I  _ told  _ him to rest," the man grumbles, and with a swish of his wand, Draco is slightly levitated and properly laid near Harry. Snape looks at him then. 

"How are you feeling?" 

Harry regards him. "Confused."

"The poison was causing severe damage to your body. I administered the antidote a few hours ago," Severus says. 

Harry bites his lips, and resists the urge to wring his hands, "How bad?" 

"I wasn't here for the worst of it." Snape shrugs, settling on a chair near the bed. "Draco reported disturbing symptoms, high fever, seizures, excessive bleeding."

Harry opens his mouth, then closes it. For a moment he doesn’t say anything, then glancing from Draco to Snape, he says, "I was dying." 

Snape doesn’t refute him, "Thankfully you're no longer in mortal peril. Even another minute delay would have made a world's difference." 

"No lingering side effects this time,” he can’t help but add, “Are there?"

"No,” Snape replies steadily, although his eyes narrow, “You can take your nerve soothing potions in a few hours." 

"What did take you so long, sir?" 

"I would rather you both be awake for that conversation. No need to worry anymore, Mr. Potter. Every last bit of that poison was purged from your system." Harry knows the last bit of that was supposed to be reassuring, but knowing that there is a reason for his delay serious enough to require a conversation, it makes his insides go cold. 

"I feel better,” he says instead, “Like I wasn't sick at all." 

"I know. As I said, I designed that poison," 

"How did Umbridge… "

"Let's just wait for Draco, shall we?” Snape cuts him off, “I believe you need to rest as well," 

Harry doesn't need another invitation, his eyes are already heavy and his mind far away. 

***

He smells. Horribly. He doesn’t think he’s ever smelled as horrible as he does right now. All he wants to do is get under a shower for two hours straight, wash his hair about five times at the very least, and scrub the grime off of himself. 

But Harry’s absence overwhelms even his own filthiness, and he quickly makes his way towards the door. He could shower later, but Harry could be dying right now and he couldn’t resurrect him later.

His lines of thought are simply ridiculous. Draco knows that. 

He vaguely remembers through the haze of exhaustion Harry waking up, and saying that he was fine. And even Severus isn’t cold-hearted enough to bury his body while Draco was sleeping. At least, Draco doesn't think so. 

Wrinkling his nose, he makes his way downstairs and can hear sounds of conversation coming from the kitchen. He doesn’t know how worried he’d still been until his shoulders slump and he runs a hand through his hair, relieved, before promptly grimacing. He should probably have at least washed the blood off. 

Harry is alive. 

He is, well, and truly alive. Alive enough to be in the kitchen and… well, doing whatever he is doing. Draco supposes he could go and take that shower now that he knows Harry is alive, but he would rather see him first. 

He very pointedly ignores the idiocy of such notions. This is becoming pathetic fast. 

Biting his lips, he settles for a simple refreshing charm, straightening out his shirt and more or less smoothing back his hair. At least he doesn’t look like an uncultured hoodlum anymore. As he enters the kitchen at last, he catches Harry’s voice. 

"-If that were true, you would be helping me cook now." 

"Potter, you are insufferable."

"But I do have a point,” Harry turns towards him from where he is chopping some carrots on the counter, and grins, “Oh, hi Draco."

"You're up," Draco says. It’s kind of hard to believe that this is the same Harry who was talking deliriously to him on the shower floor, limbs flailing around as he seized, vomiting up blood. 

"Yes. I knew you like chicken noodle soup, and you didn't eat anything yesterday, too late for breakfast now, so… " he shrugs and goes back to his chopping. 

"You let him walk around?"This is addressed to his godfather. He also wants to add  _ ‘You let him near knives?’ _ , he’d seen the way Harry’s hands had begun to shake recently, especially in the last two days, but he doesn’t think Harry would appreciate the remark, "Just yesterday-"

"I'm fine," Harry cuts in. "Look at my hand.” Draco does. And frowns. It’s still bandaged, but no longer swollen, and the bandage appears clean, unlike the last few ones which had always seemed to bleed through. He also notices the fact that the shakes seemed to have eased off a lot. 

Severus hums. "Yes, the nerve soothers work significantly better now."

"Still," Draco can’t help but say, because the image of Harry’s sickly appearance is way too fresh in his mind than he’d ever want it to be. 

"Was he always such a worrywart?” Harry says before Draco could finish, “Do you have any idea what sort of injuries I've survived, Malfoy?" Harry's voice is teasing. "I got bitten by a Basilisk, my whole arm lacked bones for like a day, and dementors… I used to have a bed in the infirmary, and madam Pomfrey kept threatening she'll actually put a plaque on the bed with my name on it-"

"You're rambling, Potter." But the bands around his lungs loosen. He hadn’t felt this relieved even when Harry first woke up. 

"Yeah well, you got the point, the soup will be ready in a bit," Harry says as he slides the finely chopped carrots into a bowl. 

"Why are you still here?" he asks Severus, perhaps a bit too sharply.

"Draco," Severus’ voice is half warning, half a sigh. He always had a talent for that, and it always used to work on him. Keyword?  _ Used.  _ "We need to talk."

"One of those revelatory talks again?” Draco crosses his arms in front of his chest, and is vaguely aware of Harry watching him, “Who else is a spy? Your teacup?" 

Harry regards him with raised eyebrows. "You're really in a bad mood huh? That happens when you go without food for two days." 

He whirls towards Harry, "You knew?" 

"Knew what?" Harry turns to the celery. 

"That he's a spy," Draco jerks a thumb at Severus even though Harry's eyes are fixed on the celery. 

"Oh yeah,” Harry looks a little bit uncomfortable, and doesn’t look at Severus, “Seen him around… during the summer."

"So everyone and their mother knew that you're working for Dumbledore. Great job. Lovely. You're a great spy." 

"I think you need to get over that in the next few minutes, Draco. There are more pressing matters at hand." 

Harry, as to cut the tension between the two, cranks his knife into the sink along with the board. "We can talk over lunch then."

The words feel like a finality as he works on finishing the soup, and Draco takes his seat, trying not to glare at Severus while also trying his best to glare at him. He knows his godfather will outmatch him in that area, so he settles for just sulking. 

Severus just quirks an eyebrow at him before he goes back to the potions journal he had been reading, and Draco wishes Harry would hum like he sometimes does when he cooks. Of course, he doesn't. 

Severus always ruins everything.

Soon though, the soup is done and they’re all sitting with a steaming bowl in front of them. The smell is tantalizing enough to alarm a rumble in his stomach. Draco hadn’t actually known he liked chicken noodle soup this much until Harry made it, in fact, the same thing went for any soup of any kind before Harry made them. So he’s sure he only likes Harry’s chicken noodle soup. 

"There was a reason for my delay, several actually, but I think the most important one is what I'm about to show you," he pulls a folded newspaper from his leather back and slides it between Harry and Draco, ignoring the bowl in front of him for now, "It's not a hoax. More than ninety dead, hundreds injured." 

Harry's mood dramatically shifts, his spoon drops into the bowl and he scans the text for only a moment before his eyes gaze into Severus'.

"Ron and Hermione,” he says, so frantic that his tongue almost seems to slip over the words in his haste to get them out, “Are they- you have to tell me if they've been… or anyone that I know, the Weasleys…"

"No one that you personally knew, Potter. Four attacks, some order members were injured in Devon, but that is to be expected, one of our bases is in Devon."

"This is not good," Draco mutters.

Harry's face is much worse than his, pale and gaunt, the word crestfallen doesn't do Harry's face justice. "Why would he do this? Children? Muggle children?" He rubbed his face with weary hands, "Oh my God." 

"He killed every single one,” Severus’ mouth thins, “they all belonged to an orphanage, close to the town's church. The caretakers have been murdered as well."

"This is not right,” the paper crinkles in Harry’s hand, “Why would he do such a thing?"

Severus is silent for a beat, and then he speaks, "He used to be an occupant of said orphanage, although I fail to understand why he would do this and why now."

"He was an orphan?" Draco asks. He didn't know that, come to think of it, he doesn't know much about the dark lord at all.

"But…" Harry swallows, he looks awfully disturbed, Draco wants to comfort him but he doesn't think it will be appreciated. After all, telling him that 'they were just muggle children,' doesn't seem like the nicest thing to say.

"But why would he do this to them?"

"We're not sure,” Severus’ hand is on his chin, his thumb tracing his jaw in a gesture Draco has seen his godfather do so often, “His attacks seemed to be more pointed recently, since your relatives' assassination, and your escape. This seems to be a continuation of his earlier strategy. I cannot tell you any more than that, Potter. You would understand, I'm sure,"

"I should have… how did I not see this? I had one of those vision thingies every time when something major was happening." 

Draco has wrapped his cold fingers around the bowl. 

Something major, as in his parents being slaughtered. 

"Albus and I talked about that as well," Severus says. 

Harry seems a world away. "I need to write to Ron and Hermione. I don't care what you have to do to get it to them, but I have to do it, I have to make sure-"

"They didn't even leave the school, Potter. They're fine. Umbridge has cancelled all further Hogsmeade outings until further notice anyway."

Draco’s head shoots up at that and he scowls. "She's still in Hogwarts? I thought we mentioned the fact that she's a freaking  _ Death Eater? _ "

"You didn't," Severus says, deadpan as he stares Draco in the eye, unimpressed. 

"What?" Harry's head whips to Draco's and back. "what do you mean you didn't know she was a death eater? She poisoned me! She kidnapped us!"

"He almost died!" Draco adds. What sort of ‘normal’ teacher poisons a student and  _ not _ be a Death Eater? Severus is supposed to be smarter than this. 

Severus' face doesn't even twitch, "Well, that fact doesn't necessarily mean she  _ was _ a death eater. Aside from kidnapping you boys, the poisoning could have as well been the ministry--"

"Alright, I'm telling you now.” Draco raises his hands up, “She's a death eater."

He hates it when Severus is like this. He hated it as a child and he hates it now. 

'Never confirm or deny a hypothesis without absolute evidence,' he used to say, quite annoyingly as Draco pouted over his cauldron, or his book, or even at the dinner table on a few occasions, 'Even if it seems like the absolute truth.'

"She has death eater connections, yes.” Severus sighs now, “But there's no mark. Proving her guilt, specifically, proving she is the reason for your abduction is going to take some time, especially with the ministry in disarray like this." His mouth twists in a sneer. 

"And Fudge knows this?"

"Fudge has no say in anything anymore," Severus flips the newspaper. "He's been replaced." He slides it across the table. Draco recognises the scar ridden, gruff face. 

"That's Scrimgeour,” he says, frowning, “The head Auror."

They had him over for dinner once. For whatever reason Draco can't remember now. The man hadn't stopped staring at him the entire time. 

His eyes follow Draco's even on print. 

"The head Auror as the minister?" Harry says, glancing at the picture as well. 

"He invoked the Auror vote.” Draco says, scanning the paper as quickly as possibly, a picture of Fudge fleeing the reporters, an article of Rufus talking about safety and new measures. 

Bullshit.

“He must have, or they wouldn't proceed this rapidly."

Severus hums, "Good deduction, Draco."

"What are you talking about?" Harry isn't amused. "I have no idea what you are on about."

"The Auror vote. It's sort of… like an emergency stamp." He doesn’t know how to word this. Harry should know all this stuff. 

"A military coup?" 

"Well, that is harsh wording." Severus interjects, but shrugs. 

"Can we get back to Umbridge?” Harry says, “Can't this head Auror guy just get rid of her if we file a complaint?"

"Oh, I have more than a complaint," Draco can never get the image of Harry convulsing on the floor out of his head and Umbridge did that. He has a  _ lot  _ more than a complaint. 

"What if she hurts others?" Harry asks, his fingers white knuckled around the paper. 

"She won't,” Severus says firmly, “The staff is taking meticulous measures to make sure she cannot tamper with the wards,  _ or  _ harm the children."

Harry throws the paper down on the table and Draco almost recoils at seeing the Dark Lord on the front page, standing in what appears to be the Ministry atrium. "That's not good enough! Doesn't Dumbledore care that-"

"Professor Dumbledore-" Severus cuts in, "Has been working day and night to get that woman out of school borders, trust me, Potter."

"What are we to do then, Severus?” Draco asks, tearing his eye away from the bold headline, wondering where his parents' name comes in all that, “Sit here and enjoy the scenery?" 

"Albus deems it too dangerous for either of you to be moved right now. With the death of your parents out in the open you're being sought out by both sides, due to my recent fall of grace with the dark lord I cannot confirm this, but there are rumors, there's a prize on your capture. On both of you." At some point, Severus had taken up the spoon and started drumming it against the edge of his bowl, although he is yet to take a bite. 

The clinking sound of the spoon feels like hammers in Draco's head. 

He’d known it, of course, that none of the two sides were really safe for him anymore, but hearing it spoken so plainly still makes it… feel too real. He numbly picks up his own spoon and dips it in the soup, shoving a too hot mouthful past his lips. 

"Hogwarts isn't safe, but what about the…” Harry stumbles over his words and makes a frustrated noise, “The summer place?" 

"There are always a few mice in the walls, Mr. Potter, even if they are unseen with naked eyes. You're the safest here." 

"And most useless," Harry grumbles, resuming his eating, much more slower than Draco. Draco has never heard Harry mention this summer place before. Or Severus, for that matter. 

Secrets such as this aggravate him, because he knows he's going to spend the majority of his time trying to figure it out. 

"I'm glad you brought that up," the man says. "How much do you know about the arts of the mind?"

"Like mind reading?"

Severus sighs, evidence of his suffering, "Then I'm going to assume you know very little." He pushes the bowl away entirely, "The connection you have with the dark lord is a mental connection between two minds. You're able to see through his eyes because you're able to access his mind through the connection."

Harry's attention is rapt and unwavering, whereas Draco has the least amount of concentration on his godfather, and more than so, on his bowl of soup. 

Mother argued relentlessly with Severus over his eating habits whenever the man was over for dinner, more often than not. Father always rolled his eyes at their quipping and Draco used the opportunity to get rid of his vegetables as his mother and godfather bantered over cold meals.

This feels eerily familiar. 

Severus is still talking and Draco is very very tempted to cast a heating charm on Severus’ soup right now, like mother used to, but he knows that it will only make him wait that much longer before he starts eating, so he ducks his head and focuses on his own warm soup and the conversation. 

"--So our minds are linked?" 

"The concept isn't as easy as it sounds. Even Albus and I are unaware of the nature of this connection, but we have to assume the worst."

Wait. That's important.

Draco looks at Harry, then back at Severus. "What is the worst case scenario?"

Severus curls his mouth, "That the Dark lord can look back. If it's a two way connection then he will become aware of its existence eventually, sooner rather than later, he is a master at mind arts, we are afraid that Potter might not survive the encounter if that's the case." That sounds fantastic. Another way for Harry to be in danger, another way for him to get hurt. 

"But I don't hurt him when I look through his eyes, how can he hurt me?" 

Draco can't look away from Severus' stoic face as he talks. He stares and wonders if he's even telling the truth, "He is a master of legilimency, he can tear through your mind, not for information, but just for his own pleasure. I've seen it done before, there is simply no return from that. We need to teach you how to protect your mind now that we are aware of the connection." Draco has heard of legilimency before, not in detail, but it had intrigued him. 

Now he wonders how much his mother knew about it. If the books he’d found at the Manor weren’t Severus’, but his mother’s. 

"How long does it take to learn?" Harry faintly asks.

"It took me over thirteen years to completely master the art of occlumency. Obviously we are pressed for time now, but don't worry, Potter, I will teach you how to protect your mind from any attacks," 

Harry blinks, looking a little stunned at the quick turn of events, and Darco isn’t faring much better, but he seems to gather himself pretty quickly, "Alright, how is it done?" 

"I've brought a few books on the subject, but Albus and I both agreed that a... hands on approach would benefit you more, than simple theoretical studies."

"Are you going to… read my mind?"

"It's not mind reading,” Severus says, “Legilimency means the art of entering one's mind, I would be able to see any memory that I wish, any stray thoughts, any information from any point in your life. Occlumency is the counter attack to that action, you will empty your mind, lock down your memories or fabricate ones in a way that the intruder won't be able to discern them."

If Harry had looked stunned before, he looks completely baffled now, but covers it up well enough by ducking his head into his bowl of soup. 

Draco hears a cough that sounds suspiciously like ‘knew he could read minds’ and Severus’ bat-like hearing tactfully turns off for that moment. He also, finally, takes the first spoonful of his soup. 

"Potter…" 

"It sounds like a lot," Harry says when his face emerges from his bowl. 

Severus inclines his head, "It will take some effort, but if you want to feel useful, you might as well start learning now, before the dark lord causes any more damage to your body or psych." 

"Yeah alright. So you have to…. Do that to me once?” It is very obvious that Harry is trying to keep his face blank as he says this, and Draco could give him a few pointers as to how to do that, but he doesn’t think even he could have kept a blank face here, “Why, to get a scope?"

The idea of letting even Severus into his mind is too absurd, Draco can’t even imagine what it must be like for Harry, who’s had a strained relationship with the potions master for years. 

"Every mind functions differently, if we are to create a fortitude to protect your mind we need to see the base it's going to be built upon. It won't hurt." 

"But you said he does it to torture people."

Severus’ lips thin, "He does it  _ with  _ the purpose of hurting people. I think we can agree on the barbaric nature of his methods."

"Alright,” Harry takes a deep breath, “Alright. When are we doing this?"

"After lunch, perhaps,” Severus shrugs, “You need to be more or less calm for it to be most comfortable." He takes another mouthful of his soup. 

"Alright. Cool. Yeah.” Harry’s hands have started shaking badly again, gone from faint tremors to visible shaking. “What if you see something embarrassing?"

"Would you rather I saw it or the dark lord?" Severus asks smoothly. 

Harry’s nose wrinkles, "Good point, yeah. Thank you, for doing this, and the antidote, I don't think I've thanked you for that."

"You are welcome,” and then, without breaking stride, Severus turns to Draco and says, “Draco, may I talk to you for a moment? Privately?" 

"Fine," Draco says, a little sourly, about to get up. But Harry snatches the empty bowl from front of him, and Severus as well, clearing the table and then turns away. Severus watches him go. Harry dumps the dishes in the sink, a little too loudly, and then stalks away from the kitchen. Draco looks back at Severus’ voice. 

"You could make use of those books as well, you know." 

"Occlumency? I would have no need for it." 

He knows what Severus is doing and the mere fact that the man thinks for one second that Draco doesn't is honestly insulting. Occlumency never interested him, but he's always been somewhat curious about mind arts as a whole. Especially about legilimency. 

Severus crosses his fingers upon the table top, in that annoying way of his when he's ready for a lecture, "You do more than you think, Draco. Occlumency is not only done in order to protect the mind from intruders. It is designed to fight the demons within as well." Draco stiffens. 

"I have no idea what you're on about," he says. 

"You and I both know that you will not discuss the traumatic nature of your recent experiences with me, nor will you burden Potter with such information, occlumency is the only healthy solution," Severus continues, unfazed. 

"Still no idea,” he says airly, “Godfather."

"You are a Slytherin, Draco,” Severus says, flicking his wrist so that his wand appears in his hand, and then waving it towards the dishes, making them start the washing process, “You know some things better than I do, I think you should try occlumency, for your own sake. Keeping the mind sound keeps the body away from irrational mistakes. You are aware of how body language reveals one too many secrets. You cannot afford that."

"I won't need it. Because I won't be facing Riddle. No one is about to read my mind, and I have no attachment to my trauma,” he says hotly, standing up and getting himself a glass which he fills with water, “It's over and done with."

God he hates the man coddling him like this. He's not a child anymore.

"Lie to someone who hasn't raised you, or doesn't know your methods, Draco," Severus drawls, "Learn it for Potter, maybe you can help him if he has any difficulty grasping the theoretical aspects."

Draco smacks the glass on the counter.

"Manipulate someone who doesn't know you, Severus,” he tightens his grip around the glass, “You think you have me figured out, you think you can trick me into doing this, because you think I'll fall over my feet for Potter," Draco wants to throw the water at Severus’ face. He forces himself to take a gulp. 

"I think you will do whatever you deem right regardless of my opinion. Regarding Potter  _ and  _ your occlumency," Severus comments lightly. 

Draco breathes. 

"There isn't a single moment of clarity in my mind where I don't want to hit you with a chair, Severus."

Severus gives him a thin smile and stands up, "That's as close as you get to loving someone, Draco.” He jerks his head towards the living room, “Shall we?" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always thanks a bunch to our beta, Amar!


	27. Have You Guessed The Riddle Yet?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings for; implied/referenced child abuse, torture, explicit language and disturbing imagery. 
> 
> Next update on 19th February, Friday.
> 
> We were so so excited for this chapter in particular, in fact we could barely wait for this update, it was so much fun to write! We sure had our fun exploring inside Harry’s head :)
> 
> Hopefully, you guys enjoy it as well! Happy reading!

_“Mad Hatter: “Why is a raven like a writing-desk?”_   
_“Have you guessed the riddle yet?” the Hatter said, turning to Alice again._   
_“No, I give it up,” Alice replied: “What’s the answer?”_   
_“I haven’t the slightest idea,” said the Hatter”_

_-Lewis Carrol (Alice in Wonderland)_

...

Severus tries not to be offended by the look on Potter’s face as they stand opposite each other in the living room. He looks as if he’s about to face his execution. Although, perhaps Severus is to blame for that himself. 

Reigning back a sigh, Severus speaks, “Relax Potter, it’s not supposed to hurt.” 

It normally doesn't, although Severus' own mind has a tendency to elicit moderate migraines if legilimency is done without any forewarning. The Dark Lord usually takes immense joy in that. 

“Right,” the boy murmurs, stealing a glance at Draco who is sitting on a chair off to the side, watching them with rapt attention. His pointed glare at Severus feels palpable.

Both their wands are out, held at their sides. Severus holds his loosely, while Potter’s is in a white-knuckled grip. 

“I won’t need to use legilimency if I can just read your emotions off your face, Potter." Potter's face morphs into a giant 'Screw you, Snape.' 

Dear God, this is already frustrating. 

"Try to relax your mind, and calm down. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Potter scowls, “You’d be surprised.” But does as he says, or tries to. The scowl clears, and most of the tension lines bleed away from his face.

Severus nods, “Alright, now close your eyes and try to clear your mind the best you can. Slow down your thoughts, and just breathe.” 

Potter wrinkles his nose as if he’s thinking particularly hard, and Severus heaves a long, suffering sigh.

Potter seems to take offence on every word coming out of his mouth. In what world, does slowing down your thoughts mean concentrating even harder on the cause of your discomfort? 

He really is his father's son at times. Well, all the time. 

“Focus on my voice, and try to imagine water,” he says. If Potter can't do it, then Severus has to ease him into it. 

“It's all around, imagine yourself floating under. Try to imagine how it would feel, the pressure against your skin, the temperature.” It had taken Severus a while to master this tactic himself, his own mind used to drift midway into the process. But water usually worked the best for him. 

“If you can hear the waves, try to imagine the sounds,” he continues, watching Potter’s face carefully as it relaxes further, his body stilling as much as it can with the tremors still running through it. 

Severus lifts his wand, and casts legilimens, non verbally as to not startle the boy out of his hopefully meditative trance. 

As hoped, it  _ is  _ the sea he sees first. But not exactly in the context he expected. 

There is water everywhere, vivid and blue, pressing on him, cold. Actually, a bit too cold. It is roughly what he was expecting, but he can also see the sunlight filtering in, and reflecting back on the corals lining the sides.

The vibrant colours take him by surprise and he reels back, twisting around to see  _ fishes  _ circling around him. Colourful corals coat the seafloor, the attention to detail is astonishing. He’s never seen anything like this.

This is not the body of water he had described to Potter when he told him to relax.

Severus starts swimming upwards, he won’t run out of breath under water, since he is not physically there, but he needs a way out of the meditative trance and into Potter’s mind. The way is usually upwards. 

So he swims upwards. He can feel the sunlight coming down from somewhere, he knows he’s close, knows he’s going to break the surface any moment. 

But he never quite-- makes it. It’s infuriating, frustrating, and very, very baffling. How did Potter do that? Why can’t Severus make his way out of the trance? 

It should be as easy as shedding a cloak. It usually is with Severus and he has done this hundreds of times over the years. 

He doesn’t know how long he tries to swim towards the surface, until he tries to change tactics. After all, it’s a mind. This is occlumency, logic doesn’t work here, however much that might itch at him.

Severus takes a moment to gather himself together, staring down in only mild trepidation, at a distance which looks like he hasn’t moved at all, he lets himself go lax and sink. 

Potter thinking that the only solution is swimming down, is a mess he'll disentangle afterwards.

His head breaks the surface and he gasps. He looks around, and although there’s water all around him still, something else Severus wasn’t expecting, he is undeniably out of the water. He has no idea how Potter had managed this in the minute or so he had been given to meditate. Something so elaborate and complicated. 

Off to the left, he sees the hint of a tall structure, and instead of swimming all the way to land, he closes his eyes and pictures himself on the ground already, standing by the lighthouse nestled between dark and sharp rocks. 

Where are the memories?

He makes his way into the lighthouse, but the moment he steps inside he’s not there anymore. 

He can tell by the shifting in the air, a sudden chilling as he steps inside the dark and walks towards a strong blue light coming from the distance, there is no way that this space could have fit inside that lighthouse. 

The blue light is coming from an aquarium, a full wall length aquarium that has gigantic goldfish twirling and twisting inside, regal and frightening at once. Their tails alone look bigger than Severus’ entire body. He walks closer, his breath held in his chest with awe. 

This is not how the inside of a mind looks like at all. At least, not the ones Severus has been in. Legilimency has always been a disconcerting experience, a colourful whirlwind of thoughts, images, memories. 

Not… whatever he is seeing right now. This feels too stable, too real even in its bizzarity. This could not be real, he reaches out and touches the cool glass. He feels a tiny shift behind him and his shoulders tense on impulse.

There’s something else here with him.

‘You shouldn’t be here,’ a voice that he hadn’t expected says. Severus turns but Black is already on him, shoving him against the hard glass of the aquarium. 

“Black,” he gasps, it’s more out of surprise than anything else. How is Black in Potter’s head? Or rather, a very well crafted apparition of the man, shoving him against the glass with an iron grip. 

He tries to will the man away but he stays, and the rough hold is still tightening even though it shouldn’t be possible. Memories were NEVER interactive. This isn’t a memory, Severus doesn’t know what this is.

‘Get out,’ Black growls in his ear and Severus turns, trying to fight back against his childhood bully. It’s been a while since he’s been in this position, getting rough with Black. The last time they were like this, he was sixteen.

Black’s face is twisted in a furious, scorned expression, his eyes narrowed and his lips pulled back against white teeth, Severus’ hands tighten around the man’s, as he’s pressing down on his neck and shoving him backwards into the glass. 

Severus feels as if he’s sinking back, sinking inside the glass, he can just feel the tiniest hint of water dampening his hair and he gasps.

The hands disappear. And the aquarium with it.

His feet touch grass, Severus feels the contrast between the two surfaces immediately. He hadn't closed his eyes, but now that he opens them he blinks to a brutal source of light.

It happens to be the sun. 

Severus' body was not supposed to be affected by sunlight projected by a memory, since he is not a part of the actual memory but an outside presence.

He's on a lawn. 

Freshly cut grass, he can actually smell the damp soil as he steps around the house, he's not alone, he hears humming.

Severus pushes the uncomfortable churn in his stomach away and rounds the house, it's a muggle neighbourhood, the houses in a row, in front of him, are all identical. The humming gets louder.

The voice is childish, and the tune must be a muggle nursery, or something of the sort. Severus recognizes Potter's messy mop of hair before he takes in the child's face.

Potter cannot be older than seven, in this weird apparition of a memory. He's too small to be even that old, but Severus figures that the boy is not really included in his peers' demographic. 

They're in a lawn, Potter is sitting by the garden, his knees are stained a shocking shade of green, his hands dirtied to the wrists. The child looks lost in his shirt, his glasses are taped.

Severus tries getting closer, but he cannot. He looks down at his feet, and to his utter astonishment sees the grass growing over his shoes. The sky above darkens and a chill that most definitely wasn't there before takes root in his guts.

His insides prickle with unease, and he looks around. The whole street is deserted. 

Harry Potter keeps humming.

Severus pulls his knees upwards, trying to loosen the vegetation around his feet. This shouldn't be possible. This is supposed to be a memory. 

This fact just keeps playing on a loop. 

Severus isn't supposed to be a  _ part  _ of said memory. It’s not supposed to attack him. And as if that weren't enough, he can't do anything about this, he can't defend himself or use any spells in here, lest he damage Potter. 

He looks up at the sky, now stuffed with rolling dark clouds that obscure the sun, the weather feels sunny still. 

Potter is patting the soil, crouched over the empty garden, it almost feels as if the boy is singing to the non-existent flowers.

Severus pauses his fight for freedom, to stare at Potter's hands, there are two small pots by his side, the flowers he is supposed to be transferring. They're rotten, overwatered, perhaps. There is no salvaging them, but Harry doesn't seem to mind that in the slightest.

Thunder rumbles through the air, but the boy doesn’t seem to notice.

"You'll love your new home," Potter whispers, as if to the soil, but his head is tilted to the rotten flower. "You won't be dead. I promise."

He cannot pronounce 'r' the right way, and it affects the child's speech, in a quite common way for a child his age. Draco couldn't say 'z' until he was seven. 

Harry pets the ground some more, and right before he turns to the pots, the ground blossoms under his fingers. In a flurry of sparkles and green, the soil spurts a bundle of mixed colours.

Severus recognizes the daisies, small roses, a few buttercups peppered in the bunch, and daffodils under Harry's palm. It's mesmerizing to watch, and Severus cannot stop staring. 

Potter is too young for this sort of sorcery. This is accidental magic,  _ powerful _ and controlled accidental magic. And it's beautiful.

The grass eases up on his shoes, and Severus starts moving forward before the humming abruptly stops. Severus pauses mid-step.

Harry looks at the gleaming flowers--real ones don't glisten like these do--and then his eyes widen in fear, pure, undiluted fright, they trudge to the porch.

Severus, in his haste to somehow come to Potter's aid, trips on the grass still bounding his ankles and goes down, headfirst to the ground, and then this memory is gone as well.

He never feels the impact as the ground swallows him. 

He’s on his knees on a hard, dry patch of ground, disoriented from his fall. 

Right off the bat, he can hear screaming, it's not Potter's, it's more mature, and it belongs to Diggory, writhing on the ground, right in front of him.

Severus scrambles to his feet, and Cedric, his former student shrieks louder than should be possible. 

"Come on baby Potter, SCREAM!" Shrieks the voice on the other end of the wand and it's all wrong.

It's Bella, of course it's her, but it shouldn't be. Lestrange wasn't present the night the dark lord was resurrected, she was locked up. Diggory wasn't tortured. 

He was killed.

They're in a graveyard, Potter is tied to a gravestone and he's crying but there's no sound. Just the sound of Cedric Diggory screaming, and Bellatrix taunting him. Except she thinks that he's Potter. And Diggory’s screaming, and Severus is not new to torture but he’s never had to hear his own student scream before. 

He still can’t move. 

In between the screams, he can make out Bella’s high pitched, nauseating voice, “I want your mommy to hear you, all the way from heaven!” 

Severus gasps a little, trying to lift his wand and pull himself out of Potter’s mind. This has gone too far. He refuses to stay in here any longer until he figures out what’s wrong with Potter’s mind, from a  _ safe distance.  _

And just like that, he’s able to move again. 

He tips forward into a tangle of colourful clothes and flings his arms out. The tangibility of everything here is still as unnerving as it was at first. 

There's subdued chatter, coming from behind him. He's in a store. Or to be exact, they're in Madam Malkin's robe shop. Severus knows so because of the number of his frequency in this shop. And because of the robe racks.

He pushes himself upright and just stands there for a short beat, trying to get his bearings. He wanted out of Potter's head, and he couldn't. Severus sincerely hopes that it was a small glitch. 

Being trapped in Potter's head feels like the extreme equivalent of actual torture.

He circles the rack, and there he sees, his godson first, standing on the small measuring podium, chin held high and his hair slicked back. Potter is standing next to him, still small, and scrawny and lost in his clothes.

They're staring at each other, their eyes intense, and Draco's slightly frightened, with the top buttons of his robes unbuttoned and his right hand loosely grasping his left wrist. 

Potter doesn't even blink once.

Severus cannot tell whether this is real or not. He cannot tell whether his godson and Potter spent long, crawling minutes just fixated on each other whilst Madam Malkin and Narcissa were distracted in the back of the shop, going through robes.

Potter's fingers twitch by his side, and as Severus steps closer, he figures out why the scene is churning his stomach. 

There's no lightning bolt-shaped scar on Potter's forehead, the infamous scar is etched in Draco's forehead instead, red, angry and bold against his flesh.

This cannot be real. Or maybe it is. Maybe Potter thinks it is. 

"Draco, dear?" Narcissa's voice rings over his shoulder and Severus turns. He's missed that voice, and he hadn't realized he's missed it to this extent right before she spoke.

"I had this one measured for you," her non-existent shoulder brushes against his, Sev can smell her sweet perfume as she passes him in a flurry of robes. "We will collect them after we have your wand."

Draco doesn't look away from Potter's face, but Narcissa doesn't seem to care. She turns away and as Severus turns, he sees Black venomously glaring at him, his body partially shrouded by the robe racks.

"Get out," the man seethes, swiftly pushing his way to Severus. "GET OUT!" He hollers at Severus.

Sev stumbles back, almost bumping into an absent Narcissa as the other man charges at him. There's a beer bottle in Black's clenched hand.

"Black--"

"Leave!" The wild mannered man screams, "Begone! Intruder." 

He wants to kill Severus, Severus can tell. Just by the manic look in Black's eyes. 

"Sirius," it's not Severus who says that. It's the childish voice behind him. Black stops in his track, eyes whip over Severus' shoulder.

Potter doesn't look away from Draco. "You need to behave, Sirius," the words ring mature even as the voice belongs to a child.

"Kiddo," Black's face softens, the bottle slips from his fingers but it doesn't break upon contact with the ground. "I need to keep you safe."

"No, Sirius. Be good." 

The whole situation is bizarre and jarring, and completely not possible. Severus stumbles back another couple of steps only to bump into something cold and solid. He whirls around, only to be met with glass. 

A mirror. 

He double takes backwards, but Madam Malkins has disappeared, and Potter isn’t anywhere near him. He jerks away from the mirror’s surface. There’s a very thin layer of frost over it, and he can make out some carving at the top of the ornate design. 

The Mirror of Erised. 

He’d heard about Potter’s encounter with the mirror, but after his last few warped memories, he couldn’t even begin to guess at what he would see now. 

Despite the fogginess, he can vaguely make out a moving figure in the mirror. It appears to be a child, perhaps a first year. Black haired and-

It’s Potter. 

Potter keeps a hand on the mirror’s surface and wipes at it, clearing away a section of frost, before smiling at Severus. A warm, childlike smile of wonder. 

Severus blinks, looking around, not knowing what to expect, almost afraid. 

And swears. 

All around him are the people from the Potter family, including James Potter, and Lily. There’s also Sirius Black and Remus Lupin, right beside the two, standing together. Off to one side is the Granger girl and Weasley. They all look frozen in time.

Everyone who’s alive, that is. And except Potter. Who’s still staring at him, through him, smiling crookedly. 

And then Black, Black again, turns away from Harry and towards him, the man's arm slips away from Lupin's waist.

Severus barely has time to raise his wand before Black is lunging towards him, screeching like that blasted portrait at Grimmauld Place, “YOU DON’T BELONG HERE!” 

Sirius pushes him into the mirror, and Severus braces for impact, despite knowing that things are supposed to be insubstantial in the mindscape. He doesn’t actually expect the impact. 

But when the glass shatters around him, his arms stinging with the shards piercing through his robes and seemingly into the skin, the pain feels very substantial. 

He falls. 

He waits for the next impact, to fall on either the boy standing on the other side, or on the ground littered with a thousand broken shards of the mirror. But it never comes. Only a perpetual feeling of falling. 

And then- 

It’s like skidding to a stop. But only just. Right before a cliff edge. He can’t actually see the cliff edge, but he can feel the very long fall, and his heart thunders. 

It’s like missing a step on the stairs. 

Severus’ breath freezes in his lungs. There’s total darkness, but he can see it. The dark is tangible, leaving the sour taste of dread behind. But everywhere at once. 

He can’t feel his limbs anywhere, he doesn’t even know if he still has his wand anymore. 

Rationally, logically, he knows that he is in the Shell Cottage, in the sitting room, with Draco and Potter. Physically, he is fine, there is nothing wrong. But processing that is impossible right now. His mind refuses to comprehend that in the face of the sheer horror of where he is right now. 

He is gazing into the abyss, and it's gazing back at him.

And then it’s like the world turning itself inside out. He feels as if he’s trying to disapparate while portkeying somewhere. The sensation returns to his body in a horrific rush of pins and needles which quickly turns to a dull ache. 

And he lurches on to his feet back in the sitting room of shell cottage. 

Gulping in a breath, he curses. 

***

Harry is retching, as Draco wrings his hands uselessly. His wand isn’t with him, so he can’t vanish away the mess. He settles for rubbing circles on Harry’s back. 

Even Severus is doubled over and looks unsettled. For someone Draco’s rarely ever seen without his calm mask in place, it alarms him. 

“What happened?” Draco can’t take his eyes away from Harry’s pain lined face, “What did you do to him? Didn’t you say it wasn’t supposed to hurt?” 

It started out normal enough, and Draco watched with wide eyes as Harry's face started contorting, and a small, thin trail of blood dripped from his nose. 

The moment he got up to rush to his side, the retching started.

Severus straightens and smooths out his expression, but not before Draco catches a brief glimpse of wariness on his face, which does nothing to ease the panic building in Draco.

Severus never fucking panics. Never. Even when Mother died, his face never fucking betrayed any other emotions other than stoicism.

He catches Draco's eyes 

“Calm down, Draco," he says, "Potter is fine.”

It's a lie. Draco knows it's a lie. His arm tightens around Harry's back. This had been a colossally bad idea. They shouldn’t have dived right into the practical part of this, should’ve gone over the risks and whatever the fuck legilimency and occlumency and all this entailed.

And now Harry is in pain and Severus is looking at him like  _ that _ . 

Severus vanishes the mess, and stalks towards them, where Harry is now clutching at his head. 

“He doesn’t look fine,” Draco says. His face is contorted in anguish. It makes something twist in his chest. Harry has been in pain a lot these last few weeks. 

Severus kneels before Potter, raises his wand for half a second before Potter flinches backwards, violently dragging Draco with him. Severus stills his wand.

Draco's other hand clenches into a fist. 

He's done something to Harry. Draco, while not knowing much about occlumency to begin with, knows that this isn't normal. He hurt Harry. 

His heart starts thundering in his chest as Severus reaches for Harry's face.

Hell no.

"Look at me," Severus says, he's trying to sound gentle but firm enough to jostle Potter out of his panic. "Harry, look at me."

He grabs the boy's chin, despite Draco's protests and peers into Harry's eyes, shining his wand’s light into his eyes, this time ignoring Harry’s flinch as Draco’s heart twists further.

Is he looking for damage? 

He finally puts away his wand and Draco itches to connect his fist with something. He has a vague idea of what. He doesn’t know what’s happening and it’s nothing  _ good _ . 

"Look up and down, twice," Severus says and Draco can see Harry’s chin trembling in Severus’ hand, after a moment, the boy obliges. 

He wants to rip the man's arm out of its socket. He knew this was a bad idea. Draco knew it with every bone in his fucking body. 

Severus could never be trusted, not ever since Draco was old enough to understand how effortlessly he lied. Not when he lied to Draco about being a fucking spy for so long. About his mother.

"Left and right, twice," he feels Harry's agitation, yet Harry doesn't verbally protest and does as requested. He's shaken. Severus is too. And it’s throwing Draco off. 

"Count for me, Potter," his godfather says, "From ten to one. Do it now."

Draco is waiting for Harry to dispute the man, call him on his bullshit the way he does. But Harry looks absurdly meek. 

"Why would--" Harry starts, eyes darting towards Draco as if looking for confirmation if he’s hearing right. 

'Tell him to fuck off, go on. Just tell him,' his eyes plead Harry's but he turns back to Severus. 

"Harry--"

"Potter,” Severus cuts him off, “Keep your eyes on me, start counting."

"No-" Potter says and Draco stiffens.

"He doesn't want to do it." Draco should have had the damned wand on him. Underestimating Severus is his only constant weakness. 

"Draco, stay out of this," Severus barks, but his voice is gentle with Harry. "Can you do it? It's okay if you cannot."

"I can," Harry frowns. 

Of course he fucking can. Severus is doing this on purpose, he thinks there's something wrong with Harry. He's… checking to see something. 

Draco hates not knowing. Draco hates  _ himself  _ for not knowing. And he hates Severus for putting all of them in this fucking situation. 

"Alright," Severus sounds too soft-spoken, to have any good intentions. He never sounds like this. He’s the man who sends seventh years crying to their dorms. "Please do it, and then after you're finished, I want you to start naming your friends, full names, any details you can recall. Can you do that?"

There’s a beat where Harry just stares at Severus and he stares back, and after- "Okay."

Any improvement that had happened in the days in Harry’s tremors is gone; if Draco were to guess, he would say they’re back to square one. Not only his hands are shaking, his whole body seems to be trembling violently. He scowls at Severus, "He's terrified, what the fuck did you do to him?"

Severus ignores him, "Count."

"Ten, nine, eight--"

"Keep going," Severus turns to him. "Has he spoken gibberish to you at all? While you were together? Has he ever done that?"

Draco is too slow to respond. He stares into Severus' face and beseeches himself to read into the expression. 

"Seven, six, sir… do I need to--" the uncertainty in Harry’s voice makes Draco angry. What’s the purpose of this? Doesn’t Severus know that Harry is  _ fine _ ? Didn’t he see that for himself when talking to him like a civilised person earlier? Why is he treating him like a patient from the mental ward now?

"Keep going." 

"He's not fucking insane,” Draco snaps at Severus, “Why are you treating him like he is?! What did you see?" 

He saw something. He must have. It could be anything, but it must have been something to throw him off. Draco wants to tell him that just because Harry might have weird thoughts doesn't mean there's anything wrong with him. 

He's never been into Harry's head, but he's gotten enough glimpses to know that Harry is fine. 

'You called him crazy too.' 

He did. Draco can't be more ashamed. 

"Stop this, Severus. Stop, he's  _ fine, _ " he snaps. Ready to bodily snatch Harry away if it comes to that. Distress is rolling off of Harry in waves, and it’s contagious. 

"If you cannot keep your quiet, Draco, then you're leaving. Let me do my job." The whole situation is ridiculous. They haven’t even left the floor. All three of them are still kneeling on the floor and Severus won’t stop interrogating Harry. 

"Three, two... one?"

"You're doing well," Severus reassures, and Draco is tempted to hex him. He would if he had his wand, but is afraid of what Severus might say to Harry in the time it’d take him to get his wand. 

It'll take him about forty seconds to run back and forth for the wand. Severus will outmatch him in a second. 

"My head hurts," Harry mumbles, looking away from Severus. 

"I know, so does mine. Look at me? Good, you're doing very well. Alright, let's list your peers."

Harry rolls his eyes, "Ron, Hermione..."

"No,” Severus shakes his head, and Draco almost hits him right there with his bare fists like a muggle, “Start with the ones whose names start with 'A', you won't have to do it for long."

Harry sighs, a strong gust of air flares his nostrils, "I cannot remember every single one of them," he says, annoyed. 

"I'll help, Albus? Adam?"

"Stop this, Severus,” Draco bursts out again, gesturing at Harry’s scrunched up face, but quickly lowering his hands at his subtle flinch, “This is shameful, you're out of control!"

"Draco… Go into the kitchen," Severus says firmly. 

He'd rather burn in hell than leave Harry alone with his godfather.  _ Especially  _ like this, when it looks like a particularly strong gust of wind will shatter Harry to pieces, and Severus doesn’t seem to  _ care _ . "No!"

"Then stop acting like a spoiled brat! Don't you understand, boy?!"

"He's not crazy!"

"Are you sure?" Severus asks. "Have you been the one dealing with one victim after another in the frontline of a war for years? No. The answer is no. Silence."

Silence. 

Draco doesn't do silence. 

"Harry," he turns to his  _ friend _ , "You don't have to do this if you don't want to," Draco stubbornly takes Harry's hand. "You did what you were supposed to. Leave us."

"It's okay. I'm fine," Harry says. "The things you saw--"

"You will not speak a single word of them with anyone," Severus cuts in, "Potter, I don't mean to frighten you, but this has to be done. One last thing, alright?"

_ Not frighten him _ , his arse, Harry is fucking terrified out of his mind. Draco has subconsciously started trying to tug Harry away from them, to no real success. Whatever happened during their mind meddling fuckery  _ did  _ something to Harry. And if that hadn’t been unpleasant enough for him, now Severus is making it infinitely worse. 

"Fine. Alright, whatever," Harry’s hand tightens around Draco’s, and it’s trembling so hard that Draco’s own starts to shake.

"Who tortured you?" Severus asks, deadpan, as if he hasn’t just asked Harry to name the person connected to one of his worst memories. 

"Severus,” Draco’s voice rises an octave, and he can’t bother himself to bring it down even as Harry winces, “for fucks sake--"

"Who, Potter? Name the person who did it, the gender, the name, everything"

His stomach twists violently, "Harry--"

"There were several," Harry says, his voice so so small that Draco almost misses it. 

"But there was someone who was always there,” Severus says, leaning forward, “You know them. I'm sorry, I'm truly sorry, but I need to make sure you're not…"

"Bellatrix Lestrange. She… She tortured me, said things to me. She touched my face, and then she kept…"

Draco’s insides go cold as Harry speaks, stomach sinking and throat tightening. How can Severus stand this? This awful line of questioning? And more horrifically, he doesn’t seem to be fucking  _ done  _ yet. 

"She kept?"

Harry avoids both their eyes, "She wanted to hear me scream. She liked it. She was always there. Then Rosier, and Nott, and her again," there are tears welling up in Harry’s eyes. 

That’s it. 

That’s enough.

Draco stands up and yanks Harry up with him, maybe a little more roughly than necessary, but it’s better than listening to this bullshit. Harry cuts off abruptly, and Severus follows them up a lot more gracefully, expression thunderous. 

“Draco--”

“No, Severus. I said, fucking enough.” Draco shoves Severus aside and, still not releasing Harry’s hand, pulls him along, leaving the sitting room. 

Up the stairs. In their room. He won't let Severus victimize Harry the way he's been doing. 

The last thing Draco hears as he slams their bedroom door shut behind them is the sharp crack of disapparition as Severus leaves. 

Good fucking riddance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks lots and lots to our wonderful Beta, Amar!


	28. Rat in the Maze

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings for; explicit language, torture, vaguely referenced/implied necrophilia.
> 
> Next update on 5th March, Friday.
> 
> We were absolutely amazed by the great response we got for the last chapter. Thanks lots and lots to our Beta Amar, and also, we sure had our fun with the characters and sets with this chapter. Hoping it gets the desired effect!

_ A rat in a maze is free to go anywhere, as long as it stays inside the maze. _

_ -Margaret Atwood _

...

Severus apparates to the location he and Albus had been occupying since their… untimely departure from Hogwarts, feeling different. 

The exterior of the cottage is pleasantly quaint, with neatly painted bricks and a smoking chimney, surrounded by trees. It even has a gravel road leading to the doorway, and tomato shrubs under its windows in the garden. 

Severus usually doesn't get to see the exterior of their hideout.

He doesn’t have the time to observe anything too closely, as he rushes to the door and knocks. It’s near sunset, but this simply cannot wait another minute. He knocks once more and hears shuffling from inside the cottage, the locks shift and the door opens a nudge, “Severus.”

The potion master clears his throat. “Yes, Albus, the code word is ‘violet’, I need to discuss something with you at once,” he pauses for a beat, “It’s about Potter.”

The door remains ajar and Severus knows the man’s wand is pointed at him on the other side. Even though it’s routine by now, it doesn’t fail to spark irritation.“I’m sure you wouldn’t mind if I made sure, my boy, would you?”

Severus easily deflects the frustration, “Of course not.”

“What colour was the raven lady’s dress in the painting that hung in my office the night you came to me?”

“Washed out grey, she had blonde coiled hair, and babbled nonsense about her lost lover in war whom she never got to bury," he still remembers the way her cries resonated with his own pleas to save Lily's life. He remembers her, afterwards, the night Lily died. He is not fond of recalling the past. "Now let me in, this is urgent.”

Albus steps aside and Severus strides in, taking in the floral wallpapers and ancient-looking plates hanging onto the walls. A narrow hallway leads to the sitting-room, there’s a framed butterfly collection glass on the mantle that’s leaned against the wall. Severus stands near the fireplace and waits for Albus to join him, the old man is in a comfortable set of light blue robes adorned with gold, glittering jewels. He never understood that sense of fashion.

Maybe the man turned to it as a coping mechanism and just never stopped. 

“Well? Anything you care to eat or drink, Severus?" Albus pleasantly asks, pocketing his wand, "Tea and honey perhaps? You look a bit peeved.”

The man takes a seat but doesn’t offer Severus to do the same, he knows that Severus wouldn’t have taken the offer anyway. “As you know, I went to the shell cottage,” Severus starts, “Potter was on the verge of death, thankfully for all of us, I got there just in time.”

Per instructed. Obviously, Albus wouldn't have let him stay away from Potter for this long if he thought the poison would cause permanent damage. He had Severus prepare potions for the wounded in the attack, because he knew Potter's chance of death wouldn't be infallible, but slim enough to give them time. 

Sometimes Severus hated the way he could agree with Albus prioritizing lives. 

“He is recovering then?” Albus asks, taking a seat himself at one of the armchairs, levitating a kettle and two cups, despite Severus’s refusal. 

Recovering. Is he? Well, Severus isn't quite sure. 

He presses his lips together in a thin line, then slowly nods. That one had been a close call, a fifteen-minute delay and Potter would have perished on the bathroom floor. It feels as if it happened ages ago. 

Albus' plan literally lacked fifteen minutes to fail. Either it was a close call, or exactly according to the plan. 

“He is well,” he says. The weight of his words feel numb. Because this didn't matter, nothing ever mattered or will matter anymore in comparison to what he saw in Potter's head. 

“I also found out that Umbridge most likely acquired the poison from the Dark Lord’s personal supplies," he might as well tell him now, "I had brewed him a batch long ago, my own supplies are untouched and our… mutual friend assured me that her supply had not been compromised, as well.”

“I see,” Albus nods as the kettle pours tea into one of the purple coloured cups, they’re handcrafted, Severus notices their small imperfections, “Are there any other brews in his possession that we should be worried about, Severus?”

“Not that I recall," he draws his eyes away from the cup, "I’ve already divulged the list of poisons I’ve made for him since my service, he hasn’t requested anything else in a while, but that’s not what I’m here to talk about,” he sounds impatient. As he should. On one hand, he doesn't want to rush Albus in his brief report, and on the other, despite his occlumency skills, his mind is still reeling with everything he saw in Potter’s. 

“No, I suppose not.”

Then Albus just waits. His eyes piercing into Severus' and simply regarding them. It's time now. 

“I told Potter about his connection to the Dark Lord," he starts, "and how to prepare oneself to learn Occlumency, I entered his mind, to prepare him for the groundwork of his shields…” Severus crosses his arms over his chest, “It wasn’t what I expected."

Albus tilts his head to the side, "Explain."

How could he put those things in words? Severus has a hard time remembering half of it.

"I had to…preform the Connell assessment on Potter," 

No outward reaction from the old man. Just a hum in acknowledgement. 

"Why did you feel the need to do that?" 

Severus can't mess with Potter's health. So he has to tell the truth, the whole truth. 

"I'm not sure whether it's the torture or Potter's mind has always been like this but… not only did all his memories seem altered in some bizarre way, his mind was hostile." 

The kettle tilts on the coffee table, "It was actively hostile towards me, there were apparitions, trying to  _ kill  _ me, Albus." Even though he keeps his expression as passive as possible, his fingers dig into his arms. 

"But that's not possible," Albus frowns, and looks only mildly surprised. 

Severus feels the entire exchange to be quite underwhelming. 

Does Albus remember exactly what branch of people were put through the Connell assessment? The same kind that are in St. Mungo's now. 

"The mind is not supposed to fight back, precisely because the outer layers are unsheathed, they're just memories and vignettes, and memories aren't interactive but his mind wasn't like that. The memories I saw, I kept appearing in… I have no word for it." The image of Sirius black running at him sends a thrill through him and he quickly clears it from his mind. 

Albus drinks from his cup, "Was Harry aware of this at any conscious level?"

He seemed more than aware, but not in control whatsoever. 

“It… seemed so. On some level. He interacted with one of the apparitions attacking me, inside his mind. They were also…- dimensions, just worlds within worlds with their own characters and environments, I had  _ never  _ seen anything like it. It felt like fabricated material," Severus grits his teeth in frustration at his inability to put it in words. 

He has never been so scared to be inside a mind before. How does Potter live with himself? The answer frightens him. 

Albus, at least, is finally starting to look appropriately concerned about the situation, "Are you telling me that you couldn’t see any true memories?"

"No, headmaster," Severus sighs, "I'm saying that I couldn't tell the difference between a memory and a fabricated one. Not most of them anyway. Also, I've never been pursued by an apparition who wants to throttle me before either." 

"Whose apparition was following you, Severus? Were there several?" 

"Black.” Severus’ hand tightens around the wand in his sleeve almost subconsciously, “Black was following me, he tried to strangle me, tried to drown me. He was trying to shove me out of Potter's head." 

Be objective. 

"An interactive defence mechanism?” Albus raises an eyebrow, “Interesting." 

"Why don't you say it for what it is, Albus?" The tea is starting to cool on the table, neglected. 

"The boy is clearly in possession of his mental faculties," Albus states idly. 

"Yet,” Severus says, taking a deep breath so he doesn’t raise his voice at Albus' lack of a reaction, “Have you seen any sane person with that mind structure? I was able to feel things,  _ physically _ , in his head!" He had actually checked himself over for injuries after leaving Shell Cottage. 

That doesn't happen. That never happens. 

"But this could mean--"

"Are you even listening to me? The boy had foreign beings in his head, his memories weren't linear,  _ I couldn't _ tell the difference between what was real and what wasn't. You wouldn't be able to either, I'm willing to bet my life on it, Albus. That boy needs examination, by mind healers!"

"Why would he Severus?” Albus answers back calmly, as if Severus is just a child throwing a tantrum, “Don't you see? This is already the best defence the boy could have had against Tom. If you were disoriented and confused, chances are that he will be as well. This is splendidly working out in our favour."

No. No, it's not. Severus has the distinct impression that he is being part of a horrendous moment. The moment Albus chooses the war over someone's life. 

"And what of Potter's loose sanity?" He sneers, he just can't help himself anymore, "He was tortured for two whole days by Bellatrix, I hope I don't have to remind you of what her victims look like after mere  _ hours."  _ His voice is hissing by the end. Does Albus truly care so little about his precious golden boy?

Albus gazes at him with  _ that  _ look in his eyes. As if he knows. Because of course he does.

“There are dark corners in that boy’s mind, Albus,” he says it with spite, almost inclined to derive a reaction out of that old man, more so than actually discussing Potter's distressing condition.

Albus, to his inner, deranged satisfaction, seems to actually perk up at his last words, sitting up straighter, as if Severus had just said yes to ‘lemon drops’ or something equally bizarre. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he answers, he distantly feels his heart skipping a beat, “there was a place in Potter’s mind, it felt like a… a void. I don’t know how to describe it." He's coming to hate this lack of articulation, the lack of knowledge or words that present an accurate representation of Potter's disarray. "That was when I got out. It was unlike anything else I’d seen even in Potter’s head. Worse than absolute darkness,” Severus says, and the description feels wholly inadequate. 

Albus hums, stroking his chin and doesn’t say anything for so long that Severus almost grows uncomfortable at his silence. “Did it, in any way, feel sentient?”

Severus feels a chill at the thought of that void being sentient, at all, but he’d been too disoriented at the time to pay attention to anything other than the sheer malice of it, “I wasn’t there long enough to notice. Although, Potter’s whole mind felt sentient. Even the memories that shouldn’t be.”

Albus nods and returns to the silence. 

Severus is starting to get agitated, after some initial intrigue, Albus really isn’t showing as much concern about the matter as he should, especially where the fate of the wizarding world’s chosen one is concerned. He repeats himself, “The boy needs mind healers.”

"Is he responsive to your inquiries?"

"Yes," Severus narrows his eyes, he knows where this is going, and he doesn’t like it. 

"Is he talking coherently? Able to take care of his own bodily needs and functions?"

"Yes. Yes, he is," Severus keeps his voice flat, and he knows the old man hears it.

"Then I don't see an issue here, Severus. Harry Potter always defies expectations. He is not just any other being, quite an extraordinary one indeed. I'm not surprised his mind rose to the occasion."

"Rose to the occasion,” he repeats, incredulous, “He's just a boy," Severus had been the one who’d seen the boy shaking, who's seen him flinching and who’s seen just how terrified he’d been that day at Malfoy Manor.

"No. Not just any boy, Severus. You saw it first-hand today yourself." 

“I know what I saw, and what I saw was anything but profitable. I have been practising Occlumency for over thirteen years, Legilimency for even longer and in those years this is the first time that I feared for my life," his hand tightens around the wand, "His mind is broken,” he declares. 

“Just because something is different doesn’t mean it’s broken or not functional, Severus. I have been doing this before you were even born—”

“Have you seen anything like this then?” Severus cuts in, not willing to let Albus make him seem like a small inconvenience, “Let me give you a little push, is this what you saw when you looked into Alice Longbottom’s head?"

Albus remains silent, and Severus knows he has a point. He was there, he and Albus and Sirius Black, when they discovered the Longbottoms in their home, the child crying in the closet, and Frank and Alice giggling on the floor, smeared with their own blood.

Albus had looked into her mind, never to look into her eyes again.

"Each mind is structured differently but there are still logical standards to be met." He says now, resisting a sigh, "Potter is dangerous.”

“The thing about double-edged blades, Severus, is that they strike the enemy with no regards or hesitations. Harry needs this, and I believe it would be for the better in the long run.”

Better for whom is the question here. Severus has found, throughout the years, that the lines always blur when one is in Albus' company. Not the lines between the light side and the dark, but rather, the extent to which a person can be used in order to serve their side.

Severus himself is the product of Albus' wavering morality. He's just lucky enough, so far, to be the good outcome of a bad situation. 

Potter is a fragile, fifteen year old boy, with a hero complex. Easily impressionable, driven and executed. 

“Double-edged blades pose a very literal meaning, Albus.” He hates the way the words don't seem sincere. 

He means them, truly does, but the truth rings in his ears. Potter can put an end to what would take thousands of innocent lives. 

So what if he's insane. Well, no that's not the right argument. The right argument is, would Severus care about Potter at all, if his godson wasn't in his company? 

He would. But as Lily's child.

His soul has become jaded over the years to casualties. This is starting to feel like another one. Severus knows Albus played a big part in that feeling.

“I think this discussion is over, Severus,” Albus says, an edge of finality creeping into his voice, “Do you think that there is any need for Occlumency with these new revelations?”

Severus stares at the other man for a beat, then says, “Not necessarily. You cannot build a fortress around a fortress. I think it’s safe to assume that the dark lord wouldn’t be able to marr Potter beyond what I already saw.”

“I will need the exact memories, if you will. There’s a vial in that coffee table drawer to your right.”

Severus gives a nod to Albus and walks over to the drawer, pulling out one of the several glass vials stored there. He still thinks Albus is making a mistake, that he’s being too aloof about the situation. That this double-edged blade is going to cut them more than it’s going to cut the Dark Lord. 

“Any luck with your own personal mission, Albus?” he asks instead. 

“I’m embarrassed by the answer you will receive, Severus. I have searched this house top to bottom over a dozen times since my arrival, I’m somewhat bemused.”

Severus snorts, “Because of the fruitless search?”

“Because I’m being played by a dead man, and losing. That’s the thing about brilliant minds, my boy, their wit lives on long after they’re gone. It might sound silly, but I feel as if the cottage is laughing at me, mocking me instead of its late owner.”

“Rightfully so, he was an odd man,” Severus says as he presses the tip of his wand to his temple and tries not to shudder at the unsettling memories. 

“Reminds you of anyone, that you might know, Severus?”

Not really, Severus barely knew the man. He'd seen him around, of course, a bit of a wallflower. He stuck to corners, avoided eye contact, and unnecessary chitchat. If he had lived longer, Severus would have tolerated his company.

“He has nothing on Potter,” Severus scoffs. Potter is a whole new brand of bizarre and peculiar and odd. He doesn't think Potter reminds him of _ anyone _ . “I wish you luck in your search, I have confidence that you will be able to out-wit a dead man at some point, you have something he has no longer… Time.”

“I will drink to that, Severus,” Albus says and picks up his long cold tea, before putting it down and continuing, “I had another request.”

“Of what kind?” Severus narrows his eyes. Albus has been making absurd requests as of late, and Severus, who had always respected the man’s wisdom, is starting to question his sanity. Not only had his pursuit in this house been fruitless, but they’ve also been unable to glean information on a number of other matters. 

It's just one casualty after another.

“I need you to hand my personal diary and books to Harry whilst he resides in the cottage, the content of said documents can only be read and understood by him, it is vital that he becomes aware of the things that have been mentioned, are of utmost importance,” Albus says, and Severus straightens up further with a scowl. 

“Consuming and keeping secret information?” Severus says, putting away the vial so he doesn’t accidentally shatter it, “Albus you seem to be forgetting the fact that Granger isn’t there with him. You’re entirely too optimistic about Potter’s intelligence.”

“On the contrary, I believe that Harry needs this information to survive. More than ever now. I know you've felt the ripples as well, Severus."

"Obscure words beguile you, Albus," Severus says, although he understands perfectly. Things are moving, and they’re moving faster than ever. Losing some of the most valuable members of his inner circle might have prompted the Dark Lord to act faster, or maybe it had always been underway. 

Severus never found out. 

"You know the man you serve. He's moving, far too quickly for us to do anything but damage control. We have no idea what he has planned, but let's agree that it's a cause for grievance," Albus’ fingers tap lightly on the table as he speaks. 

"And you believe Potter can crack the code,” Severus sneers, “do you?" The boy isn’t nearly sane enough to handle himself, how does Albus expect him to solve this when Albus  _ and _ Severus together couldn’t? 

"I believe Harry has a peculiar way of surviving,” Albus gives him a faint smile, “And that instinct is what drives him to success. That’s one of his best qualities.”

Survival is one thing, staying sane is another, Severus wants to say. But he knows it’s futile. “And what of my godson?”

“What about him?” 

Severus has a hard time censoring the words that he wants to come out of his mouth. Sometimes, even the fewest words are too much for Albus. And too much knowledge gleans the cruel streak of war strategy in the old man's head. 

Severus loves his godson, he will not let Draco die in a game no one is allowed to win. He is not a tool in the shed, or a hay in a heap. He is the heir of a prestigious family line. And he is Severus'.

“Do you just expect him to tag along?" He drawls, feigns disinterest, "He’s the Malfoy heir, he needs protection in place once Potter's up and running. Maybe even immunity.” 

He also cannot let the unhealthy attachment Draco’s been forming with Potter run too long. 

“He’s Argent’s son," Albus strikes back, quite calmly, "And Harry needs the company, Severus. I believe in people, where believing is due. Draco has come a long way and he has a long road still ahead of him.”

_ You want to use him, _ Severus seethes inwardly. This is what he fears the most. His godson naïvely perishing in the name of peace. “I won’t let him perish with Potter.”

“I don’t think that’s your decision to make.”

Nothing ever is. 

***

Bella is seconds away from dunking these men into a tub of pig blood.

All these pathetic men are not worth her, or the Dark Lord’s time. If her lord had told her earlier, she’d have done all this work in half the time, and presented it to him already. Now she’ll have to deal with these incompetent fools until they give her what the Lord wants. 

"What of the unicorn livers I ordered you to obtain five days ago?" Her voice is harsh, like the sharp edge of a knife. She's not happy with this conduct, and she has no qualms about punishing those responsible for this feeling.

Dolohov's shoulders stiffen, "I have sent for them already, three groups, asked the smugglers in the Dead man's isles myself. It's not… easy to come by." Excuses, excuses. Nothing is hard to come by if you try hard enough. 

"I don't care if you have to dig those out yourself, you worthless, squirming swine! I need results, not excuses!” she points the wand she’d been twirling threateningly at him, watching him flinch before shouting, “Crucio!"

The others quiver in fright as Dolohov shrieks on the ground. Bella sneers at him with a roll of her eyes. "Have them delivered by the end of tonight, or I will have your fucking pickled liver delivered to our lord."

"You're asking--” that snivelling idiot has the audacity to speak, “--for the impossible."

"Get him out of my sight,” she snaps, not deeming him a reply. She turns to another Death Eater, her wand still raised, “Yaxley?"

"I have the item,” he says dispassionately, “Took me a while, and quite a bit of fortune."

"Pass it over."

Yaxley’s beady eyes run over her, "Shouldn't I present my success to our lord myself?" He sneers at her and she itches to tear his neck out with her teeth. She's in a foul mood today.

"If our Lord could be bothered to tolerate your filth then he would be here himself. Pass it over, and get lost before I sever your tongue."

"Touché," he says, but reaches in the inner pocket of his robes anyway and pulls out a leather-bound package. 

"The exact amount?"

"I've had it measured twice."

Yaxley is…. efficient. Efficient enough, at least. He reminds her of Lucius in that regard. She misses him sometimes, his flair and work ethic in this regard, people’s pleaser, that he was. Or at least, the Dark Lord, and what more could Bella have asked for?

Alas, traitors, all of them. 

A hooded figure makes her way out of the semi-circle of quivering men, those who notice the silver glint of a hawk's mask scramble out of her way, and she comes to stand before the other witch.

"Shall I make my delivery now as well?" The cool voice drawls, her arms are casually crossed over her chest, and her mouth twisted down.

"I didn't call on you, bitch," Bella spits with a twist of her own mouth, her fingers momentarily clench around Yaxely's delivery.

"I wasn't aware there's a queue," The eyes narrow behind the mask, "I suppose you would be sensitive about this. I'm ruining your playdate."

Bella itches to curse her, make her writhe and scream under her, but she knows that her lord would be displeased. The Knight bitch is valuable to him. Not more than Bella, never more than her. But valuable enough.

"Pass it over then," she snaps, "It better be good, or I'll have your fingers." Preferably the tongue too. 

Valentina steps forward, reaches into her robes and pulls out a bag, throws it on the ground with a careless fling and narrows her eyes further through the mask, "How about you grade my performance?" She drawls, then kicks the bag open, and a severed head rolls out, like a quaffle, bloodied and mauled, and only preserved enough for Bella to confirm the identity. 

"Is this him?" Valentina asks innocently, her head tilted, "Go on, Bella. You can make sure. Kiss him if you like, see if it's the real deal. I know you have a knack for the corpses."

"I'll do your wife as proof then, once she's dead beneath my feet,” she says dispassionately, kicking at the head once more and running an eye over it. Her jabs usually never fail to make people tick, Valentina doesn’t so much as twitch. She doesn't have the nerve to deal with her. All in good time, Bella knows how to wait. 

Bellatrix snaps, “It's him. Get lost."

"As majesty orders," the woman mockingly bows down, "Have fun with these pigs."

Bella grits her teeth, and whips her wand at the nearest death eater she can see, her heart calms once the man goes down screaming.

There's not much improvement, out of the ten groups she's sent out two weeks ago, only four returned with their missions accomplished. Her lord is not going to be pleased.

After it's over, oh and how relieved she is that it is, Bella leaves them in the dark chamber, a scowl fixed on her face as she approaches the stairs and goes down. She has one last thing to do before reporting to her master.

The corridors are dark and narrow, the candles flicker as she passes them by, and still, Bella cannot fight off a small tendril of glee travelling down her chest whenever she thinks about Potter in these cells. Once his Lord has the brat in his palm once more, she's going to finish what she started.

His screams sounded like music to her ears.

"Get up," she barks at the huddled figure in the corner, her nose wrinkles at the rancid odour that overwhelms the cell. She should send someone down to take care of the filth. 

"Didn't you hear me, mongrel?"

"I did," Rosier's voice is raspy with lack of use, his disfigured face hidden under a hood.

"Get up. Get rid of the robe, it's filthy," her lips twist in disgust. 

"Come for a long visit then?" Even as the words seem taunting, there's no real bite behind them. Rosier is tired, it seems. Tired and pathetic. 

"Do you want to rot away in this shit hole, or prove yourself worthy to our lord once more?" she asks. He should be begging for forgiveness, grovelling at her feet for another chance. She can’t believe he still has the audacity to be sarcastic. 

"I'm no more-” he coughs wetly, “-fond of traps than your husband is, Bella."

"Answer the question,” she says, “'Use him or kill him,' were our lord's exact words.” She would have killed him, but they need people. “Choose now and stop wasting my time."

"To what extent are we talking about?” he tilts his head to the side, squinting at her through swollen, black eyes. Bloodshot and drooping. “Do you care for a personal maid? I have to tell you now, regrettably, I have the wrong anatomy parts for that." 

Bella contemplates torturing the little beetle. 

"You can read. That's enough for me." She growls, "Our Lord needs someone to research for him, and you, useless slab of meat, were the only thing left."

"Research?” he snorts, “Fun."

"That,” she raises her wand, and revels in the way he tenses, “Or death?"

"Is he too busy to do this or--"

"Too gracious," she snaps, itching to torture him, but she fears his heart might give out in his weakened state and then she’ll have to find someone else for the research. 

"Of course," Rosier croons, a sly smile tugging at his chapped lips, "Our Lord is most gracious, his mercy has been bestowed upon us all. Don't you think so Bella?" He lunges to grab the bars in glee, mocking excitement, "He has an intelligent sense of humour too--" he cuts off when Bellatrix slashes him across the arm. 

"He wanted you to feel like Potter," She snaps, "A fit punishment if you ask me."

"And yet,” he drawls, “I don't see you torturing the hell out of me."

"Just fucking choose," she says, her face set in a scowl and fingers tightening around her wand. 

He coughs a few more times, and then sighs, "You already know. How will it work then? Will I get my homework here? Or do you take me to them?"

"Come along."

"I shall thank our lord for his forgiveness,” he grins, and finally starts moving sluggishly. “This is the peak of generosity."

Bella watches as he almost crumples twice to the floor before finally pulling himself up, standing hunched over, his shoulders rounded and knees shaking ever so slightly. She turns without looking and starts walking towards the library. She can hear him huffing and wheezing behind her. 

She opens the library door with a flick of her wand and waves him inside, following in after him but standing at the doorway, "You will not step a foot out of this library until our lord says otherwise. Two meals will be delivered per day, and you're not getting your wand back."

His mouth is set in a grimace at the bright lights as he clutches the cloak tighter, "What am I looking for, exactly?"

"The extended ritual of Mann," she says. Finally a useful question. 

"Horcrux? Oh, that seems interesting,” he lips stretch into a wide smile, “Any reason why he's not using the normal route? I can tell him how if he's a first-timer."

At the end of her patience, Bellatrix doesn’t care anymore, "Crucio!"

Rosier doubles down and screams,

"Do not open your mouth until you're told,” Bella warns him. It’s almost like he wants to die. And she would, gladly, oblige, if not bound by her Lord. “Do as I said, or I will rip your ears out and feed them to you."

"Yes, as you say, Bella," he pants, giving her a toothy grin. 

"The book is in here, in the library. Find it, find the ritual, and notify me.” She turns away, “You have a week,"

"I just itch for deadlines--" 

"Get to work," she says before slamming the library doors shut and locking them. 

***

Rosier takes his time. It's been a while since he's seen this much light in one room and it takes him a while to adapt to the brightness. His eyes are blurry.

Bella leaves, with a flare of her skirt and the library doors banging shut. Then locked. 

Rosier, instead of collapsing on Lucius Malfoy's expensive chairs, hobbles to the shelves. 

His twisted fingers--already healed wrongly--trace the ancient, almost faded words. Some of these books, he knows of, has a collection of, in his own home, but the majority he has never heard of. 

Evan licks his chapped lips and leans heavily against the shelves, breathes for a few minutes, everything aches, but he doesn't pay it any attention. He's learned to yearn for the pain, to embrace it instead of fearing it.

It has made life exceedingly easier.

He reaches out, and pulls out a worn copy of 'Dark Magick Through the Dark Ages', one he knows well, and then smirks as he hugs it to his chest. The spot where these books were set before isn't empty. Of course it's not. 

Lucius Malfoy wouldn't just leave his extremely expensive, handwritten books in broad daylight in a library. Evan had thought of the secret library's existence before.

He turns and drops the book in his hands on the dark cherry wood desk. Then turns and starts emptying the shelves, his face stretches into a painful smirk as one by one, the hidden books are revealed, behind the decoys.

_ Oh, Lucius _ , Evan smirks. 

Once an entire shelf is empty, Evan reaches for the first book on the secret shelf, there's no title and the leather is worn, he flips it open.

Completely in latin, and the ink faded in some places, but it all makes sense to him perfectly. Latin was his favourite language. 

He skims through the thin pages, and upon reaching a certain page, the mirth dies on his face.

He reads the words, mouths them one by one, again and again, and once he's sure he's not dreaming, absolutely sure that this isn't a delusion and he is just lucky… he smiles. 

Then laughs. Oh, how he laughs. 

Evan puts the books down and then flops down on Malfoy's chair, his fingers trace Potter's torn robe with a gentleness preserved for flowers. 

Luck has smiled down at him once more, Evan thinks with a wry smile, glancing down at the potion book and Potter's robe bound around his wrist. 

Luck has smiled at him and Evan is going to smile back.

***

Harry hasn’t really spoken since Severus left, and it’s driving Draco up the wall with worry. It's odd, the way he can tell the difference between this gripping, stifling silence and the pleasant one whenever Harry's away.

This silence is cold, filled to the brim with urgency, even as it stills the air.

He doesn’t want to push him, but… it’s unnerving. He knows Harry has a tendency to go quiet and get lost in his thoughts often, but not like this. 

He speaks them, his inner thoughts, and he speaks random things often. Things that make no sense but sound immensely logical out of Harry's mouth, and the most ridiculous notion is that Draco yearns to hear them. 

But it’s been about two hours since Severus left and Harry hasn’t spoken a word yet except for saying, “I’m fine.” 

Draco hates silence, and he hates seeing his...well, Harry being the person enforcing such silence. They're already in isolation, he doesn't need another reason to feel miserable. 

Now he realizes how selfish his thoughts sound. Selfish and self-centred, and only half true. He might not be some altruistic Gryffindor, but he cares about Harry and the boy is currently, visibly, upset. Because of Severus. 

Damn Severus. 

Sometimes, Draco doesn't even know why his parents chose that man to be his godfather. It seemed so much easier to comprehend that as a child than now when he just knows better.

Severus can't be trusted, he couldn't be trusted before. Draco doesn't even know if he means anything to the man anymore. Every second of each quality time spent with him now feels sordid and distorted. 

He basically called Harry insane. 

Draco knows Harry isn’t 'insane'. It's such a strange label to give a living being, it's too gigantic of a word. He's never noticed it before, the way that some people just call others crazy. The way they're right about it sometimes.

This is not the case now, Draco will bet his life on it. 

Harry isn't insane. Maybe a little strange, maybe a little unique, and maybe the brightest thing Draco's seen in a long time, but that’s a long way from crazy. 

He’s furious at Severus, he had no right to pry the way he did. But he cannot help but question it anyway. Severus was terrified, not of Harry, but  _ for _ him.

He must have seen something in Harry's head. Something so twisted and dark and unlikely, that it immediately prompted him to start examining Harry.

Draco knows that it's an actual thing. It's a procedure. To weed out the 'crazy' from the tortured. Most people who might need it would not be labelled as the latter. And if anything, Severus should have thought of this  _ weeks  _ ago, when he rescued them.

But he didn't do it then. Something made him think of it now. And whatever he saw, then Harry did as well.

Harry doesn't look afraid now, he just looks peeved and upset. Draco, in his four years of outright bullying, has never been subjected to this expression on Harry's face.

Maybe he’s quiet just because he needs some time to process what he saw. That would explain it. Even Severus had been unsettled, right? Potter’s had an eventful life, after all. All his encounters with the Dark Lord and Bellatrix and merlin knows what else.

Bellatrix. 

“Hey, Harry,” he starts, although he doesn’t know what he wants to say. He wishes he had an array of random facts like Harry for moments of awkward silence. 

Harry jumps, startled, before turning his wide eyes to him, making Draco wince a little. 

“I could have hit you," he says,

"No…" he wouldn't have, they're like five feet apart, "Are you alright?" Draco asks, feeling redundant. 

'Are you alright?' 

Who says that?

Harry stares at him for a few seconds, as if he's thinking the same thing, "We've had this conversation before. I'm fine," Then he shakes his head, "Are you hungry? I've left some food out. You can warm them or something," Harry's voice is so monotonous that it almost makes Draco wince again. 

"Don't mind Severus,” Draco says, instead of replying, “He's always been a bastard. Just…" just turn back to normal Harry again, he thinks, with a bit of guilt. 

"I'm not mad at your godfather. I'm fine,” he repeats, “As I said, food is out."

Fine is a word Draco would be alright not hearing for a long long time. He’s learnt that it rarely means, rather like ‘great’, what it’s supposed to mean when it comes to Harry. 

"You're not insane. You're not, he was overreacting. He was over the line,” way way over the line, “and… and I think, just because you're  _ you _ doesn't mean--"

"Draco?" He finally turns to him, "You're not helping."

He's right. If anything, Draco is just making shit worse now. How is it that when it comes to Harry, his vocabulary is limited to an embarrassingly small variety of words that couldn't be  _ more  _ wrong coming out of his mouth?

Draco snaps his mouth shut, because he's gaping like fish, an idiot, and an idiotic fish. His teeth clack painfully together.

Maybe he shouldn't comfort Harry. Maybe he should just let Harry talk.

Then taking a deep breath, he says, "Well… tell me.” He says, and Harry opens his mouth, “Tell me how I can."

Harry hesitates, "What Snape said...isn't a fixed quantum measure. It's a spectrum. He…” Harry looks down at his hands, “He might have a point. It's not crazy or not. It's how much crazy," his voice gets smaller with every word. 

That was a bad idea. Okay, Draco breathes. 

"You were  _ fine, _ " he says vehemently, because it's true and because nothing else, even this, feels adequate enough as an answer.

"I'm never fine, Draco. I've never been,” Draco can see Harry’s throat bob as he swallows, “I don't know why you cannot see it."

He shouldn't be fine. That’s rather the point. He's himself. Draco doesn't know what to do with that information, and whether he wants it in the first place.

"I don't see anything,” Draco says firmly, “Because there is nothing to see. You're fine, not because of what he says. You're fine because you're you. It doesn't matter what he thinks of you."

Well, it's more of a matter of what Severus  _ saw  _ not what he thinks of Harry.

Some part of him is morbidly curious about it. What could possibly derange Severus the way it did? It wouldn't scare Draco, it doesn't scare him now, it'll just...incite him. 

That's not the right word. 

"Doesn't it matter to you?” Harry asks, interrupting his inward battle with the English lexicon. He's frowning, a little fierce, “He could be right, you know? I could be absolutely bonkers. How are you willing to live with that? I might hurt you."

"You're overthinking, and rambling. Stop.” He throws up his hands, “Just stop. I've known Severus all my life, he helped raise me. He was overreacting."

"He was scared of me, and if he was scared then maybe you should be too," Harry looks away. 

He doesn’t know how to convey it anymore. He’s not afraid of Harry, he’s never been afraid of Harry. Harry is an intriguing person, one of the most interesting and lovely and kind people Draco has ever met. It’s baffling to him how Harry can’t see it. It’s so obvious to Draco. 

It's baffling, how obvious it seems now, when it wasn't at all before. Before when he used to bully him. He hates that part of himself now.

If he could, he would have gone back and kicked himself in the groin for that. What a fucking idiot he was merely a year ago. 

"I think you should ask him to move you somewhere else." 

Draco blinks. "What?" 

Harry looks at him for the first time in the last two hours. "I think you should ask him to take you away. He might do it himself when he's back."

Something heavy drops in his chest. "Are you serious?" 

"It depends on what Dumbledore thinks. But I think...I don't know, Draco." 

Draco  _ cannot _ take it anymore. It doesn’t take much thought and is a split-second decision. Words don’t seem to be getting through to him. Severus’ words burrowed in first and they burrowed in deep and nothing Draco says is helping. 

So he surges forward. He wraps his arms around a stunned Harry and hugs him as tightly as he can, ignoring the mad flush in his cheeks and Harry's surprised yelp. 

"Draco for God's sake--"

"I order you to stop talking now." He says, Harry is limp in his arms, limp but warm, "Stop,” he says as firmly as he can when wrapped around Harry like an octopus, “I know you overthink these stuff. You're fine. We're both fine."

It takes a few seconds, in which Draco seriously contemplates pulling away, but then very slowly Harry wraps his arms around Draco too. His embrace isn’t nearly as tight as Draco, his arms are gentle as if he’s afraid. But at least now Draco knows this wasn’t unwelcome. 

“Okay,” Harry whispers, and leans his head into the crook of Draco’s neck. Draco is glad, this way Harry can’t see the deep red flush on his face still. 

Draco can feel Harry trembling. "I won't go. I'm not letting him take me away,"  _ from you _ . 

He doesn't let himself completely be immersed in the thought and its implications.

"Draco?" Harry asks tentatively after a few seconds. 

"Hmm?"

"Can you--” he hesitates, then continues, “--um, keep doing this for a while?"

Draco clears his throat, "Um, sure."

He could pretend deep down, that he's not enjoying this, but he won't. He's definitely enjoying this. 

"I cannot remember the last time someone hugged me,” Harry says, and his arms tighten a little around Draco, “Shit, is that too much information?"

"Nope, and I cannot remember either," he can, though, Draco remembers it vividly. His mother. How before she died, she smelled like cherry. 

Harry smells like spices. He's also warmer, and shorter than his mother. 

"Okay. I'm… kinda glad you don't mind me. Even if he's right.” Harry lifts his head then, and looks at Draco. He sounds sincere but something about it feels odd. 

"Yeah,"

He looks down into Harry’s eyes, wide and bright, “You don't? Right?" Everything Harry says makes Draco’s guts twist unpleasantly, and he too, tightens his arms. He hopes Harry doesn’t notice. He hopes he does. 

"Of course not,” he says, giving him a smirk, “No normal person is gonna do the things you do. It's great."

"Great?"

Draco’s smile widens, more genuine than before, "Great."


End file.
